


Hold The Line

by dontbefancy



Series: Hold the Line Verse [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 06:19:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 97,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontbefancy/pseuds/dontbefancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone is a senior, marching band is the new glee club and Blaine is the new kid set to topple Kurt’s well-earned, and long-awaited reign as the lead trumpet in their award-winning ensemble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my lovely beta buckeyegrrl for encouraging me to make this one happen, for not killing me when I became more than difficult with making it happen, and for always being my loudest cheerleader – even though band kids traditionally hate cheerleaders. I make an exception for her.

According to Kurt Hummel, the best thing about being in band is that it gives you a completely pre-packaged, forever-committed family in the midst of the raging hell that is otherwise known as high school. 

The _worst_ thing about being in band is that you're with that family constantly. And when you're not with them, you might as well be because they're text-bombing your phone at 3 am with juice on the latest cheerleader's pregnancy or that while drunk, Rachel finally confessed that yes, she indeed would go bi-curious for Quinn. 

If Kurt remembers the text message correctly, the phrasing was, "Yes! I would dive into Quinn like a fat kid at a pie eating contest!" or something equally nauseating and traumatic. And offensive. 

But this moment – right here, right now – is a _best thing_. 

It's early July, the last few weeks of summer freedom. Their final Independence Day parade is over, and to reward themselves for marching five miles in 95-degree heat in full wool uniforms for four years straight, everyone that matters is gathered at Mike's house for the annual pool party. 

Senior style. 

The lemonade is properly spiked, there are no directors shouting _watch your horn angle,_ or _toes up,_ or _hold the line, dammit,_ and the best part, everyone – except Kurt of course – is in proper states of undress. Kurt might be as gay as a rainbow-farting unicorn, but there is _never_ anything wrong with appreciating the beauty of woman's human body, especially one as fine as Santana Lopez's. 

Until it's coming into his line of vision, dripping chlorinated water onto his bare thighs. 

"Kiki, look at you. It's nine-thousand degrees out here, you're still wearing your shirt and are entirely too dry. We need to fix that." 

Kurt lowers his sunglasses and looks over them straight into Santana's cleavage. "It's all part of a carefully thought-out plan. I play coy and you come shove your boobs in my face." 

"Aw, I didn't know you cared." 

"I don't. But, even I can't deny you have an amazingly fine…" Kurt squints, searching for the right word, pushing his glasses back on the bridge of his nose when he finds one. "…landscape." 

Santana stands upright and grins, reaching out a hand to pull Kurt up. "C'mon. You're getting in the pool. I need a bottom for chicken and I _know_ you can manage that." 

Kurt makes a display of disagreement, huffing and puffing and tugging and whining while he stands and reluctantly takes off his shirt. "What happened to Brittany?" 

"She's topping Mike." 

Kurt looks into the pool and sits back down again. "I am _not_ competing against them. They will drown us like rabid sewer rats!" 

"You forget, I'm the chicken champion." She leans in and kisses the tip of Kurt's nose as she removes his sunglasses, tossing them on his chaise and pulling him up again. "You need to loosen up; I've got this." 

"Fine. Just. Fine. But if I’m bottoming you're going to have to lube me up." He digs into his bag for a bottle of sunscreen and tosses it to her. "Lay it on thick, Snix. I have a feeling you don’t go easy." 

**~~~**~~~**

They are cremated. Slaughtered. Spit-roasted and fried. Kurt and Santana spend more time resurfacing from being pulled underwater than they do getting Santana repositioned back up on Kurt's shoulders. They even try playing with Kurt on Santana's shoulders – which seems to go pretty well – until Brittany and Mike swap and it's all over. Kurt falls back into the water with a squeal pitched high enough to raise the dead and enough water up his nose to refill Lake Erie should it ever dry up. 

But, the only one keeping score is Santana, so she convinces everyone she's still champion. Because really, no one else cares. 

"I'll get that crown back at band camp anyway." 

"I'm riding your ass so hard this summer, you won't be able to straddle _anyone's_ neck by then, Snix." 

"What makes you think _you're_ top dog?" 

Kurt yanks the towel off of his head and rolls his eyes. "Oh come on. Doc graduated; lead trumpet is mine and you know it." 

"Yeah, Doc may be gone, but didn't you hear, Kiki? There's a new kid in town." 

"That sounds like the beginning of a really bad movie." 

"Play it right and maybe it will be." 

Kurt is already bored with _the new kid_. No new band member is going to unseat him. "So, who is it?" 

"The hobbit that moved in next door to me. I tried giving him my old toddler bed to sleep in, but he said he already had a bed." Brittany shrugs. "Not my fault if he gets lost in the night." 

"A hobbit is going to take lead trumpet from me." 

"If he doesn’t get lost in his gargantuan human-sized bed, he is." 

"Snix, what the hell is she talking about?" 

"The new kid. From Wapak." 

"Wapakoneta's band sucks." 

"Yeah, but remember their show last year?" 

"Maynard Ferguson. It made my ears bleed. Was totally disrespectful to a legend— wait." Kurt blanches. "Except for the lead trumpet. He _killed."_

"And he lives next door to Brittany now. Happy senior year, Kiki!" 


	2. Chapter One

"Alright, everybody. Come hither."

Kurt follows his director's commands, busy watching and judging the freshmen class after calisthenics. He's calculating how much work he's going to need to do just to get them through the first evening of rehearsal, no less the entire season. From his initial evaluations, this class consists of a bunch of flabby, undisciplined malcontents. Half of them are chugging entirely too much water from their coolers— _let's see how much puking happens tonight –_ and after only 2 laps around the practice field, the other half are too tired to even _get_ to their coolers, no less to the tower.

The tower— the band director's home for marching season. Ms. Jones and the percussion instructor, Ms. Beaman, sit at the top of the 20-ft. 2-level scaffold-and-wood monstrosity to oversee drills and rehearsals. Head-microphones boom their voices across the 100-yard black-topped practice field, offering praise or scathing criticism, depending on the need of the moment. The blessing of the tower – they can't see the kids' eye rolls. The curse?

They see _everything_ else.

The band, old and new, gathers around the tower to hear what Jonesy has to say. It's the beginning of four solid weeks of summer rehearsals before school starts. The beginning of weekly football games and multiple marching competitions. The beginning of over three months where no one has a life outside of marching band.

Santana slings an arm around Kurt's shoulders as they approach, pointing out a boy with dark curly hair and a shiny, spotless, undented, top-of-the-line Bach _Stradivarius_ trumpet.

Kurt is unimpressed. "Is that him?"

"Yup. He's entirely too pristine. And so is that horn. Who rehearses with their Strad?"

"Apparently he does. I am _so_ fucked."

"Breathe, Kiki. Maybe last year was a fluke. Or, they wrote the stuff simpler so he'd sound better. Or…maybe his eyebrows are stick-on and you'll have fodder to last you through this week anyway."

"Snix! Are you joining us this year or are you simply here for a social call?"

"I'm here, Jonesy. Sorry."

Ms. Jones smirks. "For the rookies in our midst or for those who have attention span issues and missed it, this year we're doing the music of Queen."

While most of the band knows this, a cheer erupts anyway. She's been known to change her mind and this is a show that everyone, regardless of clique or musical tastes, can get behind. It's theatrical, it's rock, it's pop. It will be, Kurt has decided, the best show McKinley High School has ever seen.

"And before anyone asks, no we're not doing _Bohemian Rhapsody._ You know I don't like doing top hits when we do shows like this."

After the mumbling and whispers of excitement die down, Jonesy continues into her annual spiel, outlining basic rehearsal etiquette, _to be early is to be on time, to be on time is to be late and to be late is to do laps,_ wah, wah, wah, wah. Before long, Kurt completely zones out— this is his fourth year hearing it.

Besides, he's too busy scoping out the new kid.

_Tiny guy. Curly hair. That's where Brittany got_ hobbit _— god, she's an idiot. Muscular, great legs,_ great _arms. Oh my god, shut_ up, _Kurt. Good lips for brass, clearly in tune with his playing – constantly flipping valves, buzzing lips – perfect lips, reall— Jesus Fucking Christ. He doesn't stand still very well. That will have to be worked out. And those eyebrows do look like the fallout from a nuclear meltdown. Okay, I can work with this._

And then—

"Snix, take the trumpets to the right 45—"

"WHAT? Jonesy, that's _my_ section! _"_

"Kiki, spend some one-on-one with Blaine. He'll be assisting you this year if he can learn the ropes quickly enough."

"Assisting— are you _kidding_ me? I've waited for—"

"Yes, I know. Which is why I have faith you'll be a team player and go make Mr. Anderson feel welcome and at home." Kurt huffs and looks around, finding Blaine ten yards to his left, smirking like he knows a dirty secret. "One hour in sections and then we'll come back for fun block."

**~~~**~~~**

"Hi. Sorry to take you from your position."

"What? No. It's temporar— it's okay." Kurt slugs back a drink from his gallon cooler and pops the spout from his mouth, tossing it to the ground with enough force to prove that no, it most certainly is _not_ okay. "Let's, um…let's go over to the 30 over here. First hash mark."

"Do I need my horn?"

"Yeah, we'll go over horn angle and stuff. Make sure what you did at Wapak matches us."

Blaine snaps his horn to his mouth in a perfect angle, back straight, elbows out, chin up and Kurt bites back a sigh. "Yes. That's—yes." _Overachiever. Delightful._

They get to the 30-yard hash and Kurt shoots a glance at the other trumpets as Santana parades them around, going over the basic 8-to-5 step— eight evenly spaced steps to move a five-yard distance. Marching 101. "One-two-three-four-five-six-seven- _hit_ —oh my god, have you piss ants ever even walked a _mall_ before?"

"Look, we can join them over there and you can take over. I'm sure I'll catch on."

"No." Kurt brings his attention back to Blaine who's suddenly standing one step inside of his personal space bubble and why didn't he notice this guy's eyes earlier on? They're the color of Grade A maple syrup and just as sweet. _Shit._ "I'm—" He steps back and points to the end zone. "You did glide steps? You weren't military, right?"

"Right. Corps. Heel-to-toe."

"Good. Horn up." Blaine snaps his horn again and Kurt begins to tick a steady 100 beats per minute. "Ten yards, 8-to-5, pay attention because I might change it."

And he changes it. And Blaine keeps up. So Kurt tries more, using different steps – large 4 steps-to-5 yard strides, tiny 16 steps-to-5 yard shuffles, front-facing steps where no yard markers can help him measure. And Kurt smiles to himself when he finds Blaine isn't the marcher he'd like to think he is. He's having to over- or under-compensate to hit his marks properly and while he does hit them, the mess in-between yard markers is not acceptable.

So, Kurt joins him on the 30-yard-line to march with him. "Stick with me. Your steps aren't even."

"I'm hitting the marks."

"Lesson number one: it doesn't matter. If the steps in-between are shit, the performance is shit. Marching shows are moving designs. Every step has to be exact or the view goes fuzzy."

Blaine rolls his eyes and snaps his horn up, mumbling into his mouthpiece. "Never mattered at Wapak."

Kurt lowers his own horn and walks to stand in front of Blaine, pushing his trumpet down with the press of a finger. "Lesson number two? You're not at Wapak anymore."

Blaine opens his mouth to offer what Kurt assumes is a smart assed retort, but Kurt takes his place next to him and snaps his horn up, side-eyeing Blaine until he follows.

"We'll start simple for you. 8-to-5, 20 yards to the end zone. Slide after 10 yards. Ready-and-go."

**~~~**~~~**

At the end of the hour, Kurt and Blaine join the rest of the trumpet section. Blaine's marching is heads above the rest of the freshman and if he is just going to be a section member, Kurt would be satisfied. But as a senior who is supposed to be assisting him in a leadership role? He isn't even close.

"You're going to need to get a gallon jug. Twelve ounces of water won't last in this heat."

Blaine wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks at his half-empty bottle. "You going to tell me what underwear I should be wearing too?"

"Fine. Pass out from dehydration. I'll just step over your sorry ass." Kurt snaps his thermos closed and tosses it on the ground, exchanging it for his trumpet before taking off to talk to Santana.

"Kurt—Kiki? Is that what Jonesy called you?"

Kurt stops and sighs, turning back around with a glare. "Yes. And before you say anything, I'm fully aware it's slang for genitals of both sexes in multiple languages, so don't even start. Jonesy gave me the name, she didn't know any better and—"

Blaine's smiling now, biting back a laugh and it's quite possible his eyes just sparkled? In this oppressive, hazy heat, his eyes sparkled. Kurt closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "You're laughing at me."

"Not at. Just—with?"

"I'm not laughing."

"Okay, then. I guess I _am_ laughing at you." Blaine caps his water bottle and picks up his trumpet. "You know, maybe if you took the stick out of your ass, I'd be laughing _with_ you. It's really your call."

**~~~**~~~**

The rest of rehearsal goes well enough. Kurt can't concentrate, his focus solely on Blaine. His marching is improving as the evening progresses, but still needs serious refinement. His playing isn't shabby, but not good enough to threaten Kurt's top spot. And his ass jiggles perfectly in his loose gym shorts when marching in front of him—

"Clean out your spit valve, Kiki. You're drooling into your horn."

"Is it that obvious?" Kurt leans his head back onto Santana's shoulder and sighs, grateful that Jonesy has decided to torment the trombones for the time being. He's tired. He's hot. He's drooling. Two out of three ailments are shared by the entire band, but the last one is the most concerning.

"Eh, probably not to anyone but me. Just don't get a chubby or I'll never let you live it down."

"You're a true friend, Snix."

"I know, baby." She kisses his cheek and pushes him off of her. "Too hot for snuggles." She continues staring at the show, however. "That _is_ a fine ass."

"And probably straight."

"The odds are not in your favor."

"Look at the way his calf muscles shift just standing there shooting the shit with Chelsea." Santana moans. She is not helping. "Should we warn him he'll never get away from her once she gets started?"

"Nah, let him figure it out for hims—" As she finishes her sentence, Blaine looks up to Kurt and Santana, eyes pleading for an escape, and Santana caves. "Maybe we should rescue him."

"He does look like an abandoned puppy dog."

"Blaine! C'mere a minute!" Santana snickers as Blaine gives an apologetic look to a very smitten Chelsea, mouthing a thank you as he walks up to them, checking to make sure she's gone.

"Oh my god, does she ever stop?"

"No." Kurt and Santana chime in unison and pull Blaine to the sidelines when Jonesy calls for the final water break of the evening.

"We had a guy like that in Wapak. Clarinet player. He'd talk and talk and talk and the whole time he's mouth-breathing and licking and sucking on his damned reed."

"Sounds like Nate." Kurt points to the clarinet section where a moppy-haired, slightly overweight boy is obsessively licking his reed, sucking the mouthpiece into his mouth every few licks. "He sounds like a drunken goose when he plays. We figure he chose clarinet because he likes to blow wood."

"Ah, well. There _are_ worse hobbies."

Santana and Kurt swallow back spit-takes and look at the new kid with an entirely new level of respect. And interest. "Are you…?"

"Gay? Yeah, you?"

"I knew I should have worn my Scarlet G today."

"Well, I sort of fig—I mean—" Blaine clears his throat and tips back his water bottle to drink, only it is now empty. "Shit. Is it—is it safe here? To be out?"

With a sigh and an I-told-you-so look, Kurt hands Blaine his jug. "At McKinley? Yeah. No. Well, it is here in band." Kurt points to the tower and smiles. Jonesy and Beaman are having a heated discussion, Beaman's arms flailing, Jonesey's hands up in submission. As usual, Beaman wins this round. "When both of your leaders are gay, it's sort of a requirement to offer a safe haven for your class."

Blaine nods and tilts his head back to pour water into his open mouth while Kurt stares, almost dropping his trumpet. Santana, the most excellent best friend of all time, smacks Kurt's shoulder and cackles as she walks away. "Not to repeat myself or anything, but – happy senior year, Kiki!"


	3. Chapter Two

"Hi! I wanted to properly introduce myself yesterday but you left sort of quickly and I could see Kurt had your attention and I'm Rachel." Blaine numbly grabs the hand shoved in his and limply shakes. "Rachel Berry. And you're Blaine, right? Blaine, it's nice to have you here in the McKinley Marching Titans. I hear you're a fantastic trumpet player and while I don't remember hearing you last year, Kurt sure seems to be up in arms about you being here, so I just wanted to tell you not to be intimidated by him. He really is a softie. He just cares so much about this band. We all do really. We have quite a reputation to uphold and it's the job of every single member to make sure that happens. Thirty-five years of straight I's at State Finals. Wouldn't it be awful if we were the band that broke that amazing trend?"

Did she breathe? Would that flute she's flinging around so carelessly work as a cork in her mouth? Wait, she stopped. Is she waiting for me to speak? Her eyes are the size of truck tires. What did she even ask me?

"Um. Yes. Kurt is…demanding. I noticed. But, I'm sure we'll find our groove in time." Blaine offers what has to be his weakest attempt at a smile and takes a step back, hoping she doesn't follow as she has been for the entirety of this "conversation." He needs to warm up and figures blasting his highest note in her face is not the best action at the moment.

Although, he is tempted.

"Yes. Well. I just—" She reaches out her hand again, shaking his violently. "—wanted to welcome you and tell you that you have the most beautiful eyes."

"What? I—okay. Thank…you? I need to go—" He points his trumpet to the rest of his section already warming up. "Go, um. Warm up. Some. Yes. BYE!" He kicks back a few steps and sprints away, tossing his new water jug to the sidelines.

He considers joining his section but thinks better of it, checking the action of his valves and turning his back to the group to warm up his own way, his best way, his most comfortable and trusted way.

He starts mid-range with 5-note arpeggios  rising and falling just to get his embouchure settled in, his breathing centered. Next are lip trills, pushing his range a little higher, well within his comfort zone but a stretch for many a high school trumpet player. He buzzes air through his lips before starting ascending chromatic scales a few octaves lower than where he'd stopped, working his way back up again, gradual in step, flying 16th notes, landing securely on C6 – a note any decent senior player should hit – bell-like, echoing along the soybean field across the street from the school.

Feeling confident and fully warmed up, he moves on to quick ascending and descending chromatic scales, stretching and lifting higher and higher until he completes a G5 to G6 scale, notes reserved for the wailing trumpets in jazz. He pulls his horn away with a huff of air only to be met with complete and utter silence behind him.

He turns around and while the majority of the band is taking a water break before starting calisthenics, the trumpet section stands and stares, mouths hanging open, horns at their sides. Kurt, however stands with one hand on his hip, one eyebrow crooked, and his lips pursed in an apparent attempt at holding back a litany of opinions that Blaine is sure he doesn't want to hear.

"Signing up for jazz band, I'd assume?"

"Um. Probably, why?"

"Because that's where that kind of hot dogging belongs. Not here."

"Hot dog—I was warming up."

"You were showing off."

"I was warming up. It's the Minear Method or are you just unfamiliar with—"

"I'm more than familiar with Mr. Minear, but I don't think showboating a—what note was that anyway?"

"G6. What do you have in you…Kiki."

Kurt flushes and side-eyes Santana. She wordlessly slinks next to him and flops an arm around his shoulder. "I don't—I don't think that's important here. Those aren't notes we'll ever be using on the field."

"Pity."

"Look. This isn't Wapak and you're not the star of the show anymore. This is a team effort and drawing attention to yourself like that doesn't—"

"Hey, Anderson!"

The trio's attention is drawn to the top of the tower where Jonesy is leaning over the edge. "Yeah?"

"Nice stuff there. Can you do that consistently?"

Blaine bites back a laugh, while Kurt huffs and stomps off to the sidelines for water. "Yeah. I wouldn't want to end a show with it, but yeah."

"Nice. Good chops. Keep it up."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"It's Jonesy, kid. Do NOT call me ma'am."

~~~**~~~

"Reset 8!"

Even with the sun's lower position in the sky, the humid July heat isn't letting up, exhausting everyone. Rookies – unprepared for the heat, for the intensity of rehearsals, of the demands put on them from their section – and squad leaders, are dropping like flies. More experienced members might be used to it, but it's still affecting them, their marching getting lazy, play getting sloppy and attitudes getting bitchy.

Blaine rests somewhere in the middle of everyone, a rookie to this band, but a marching band veteran. This kind of intensity, however, is new to him. It's only the second day of rehearsals and the show's opener is completely blocked and the music is coming along. It would take Wapak at least two weeks' worth of rehearsals to get to this point, especially with the difficulty of music they are playing. In fact, he knows Wapak couldn't handle this music, this marching, this discipline or this passion.

And he loves it. He loves the challenge. He doesn't love, however, the idea of resetting clear back to the 8th chart, virtually starting the opener from the beginning. And from the grumbling around him, he's not alone.

He makes his way to the 45-yard-line to stand in front of Kurt, trying to ignore the swirl of chestnut hair that hangs in the middle of his forehead as he turns his back to him. He remembers a poem his mother used to say when he was younger about a girl with a curl in the middle of her forehead. Of course, she changed it to 'boy' while tugging at the ringlets that dangled down from his own hairline.

_There was a little boy,_   
_Who had a little curl,_   
_Right in the middle of his forehead._   
_When he was good,_   
_He was very good indeed,_   
_But when he was bad he was horrid._

He wants to tug at that loop of hair, asking Kurt if he is good or if he is bad. And then he wants to punch himself in the face because Kurt has made it abundantly clear – he is bad. Horrid even. Pushy. Demanding. Impatient. Stunningly gorgeous, quick witted and yes, Blaine needs to punch himself in the face.

"Left foot on the yard line, Blaine. Did they teach you _anything_ at Wapak?"

"They taught me how to be polite, for starters."

"Polite doesn't win competitions."

Blaine adjusts his position, more angry with himself than Kurt. It's a rookie mistake, but he's not paying attention, more focused on the sweat dripping down his own back and that Kurt is behind him probably being grossed out by it all. If anyone can sweat gracefully, it's Kurt. _Naturally._

Artie, the field commander, counts off and they begin. Blaine is confident with this portion of the opener. It's quick and staccato, their marching emphasizing the rushed pace of the song, a bit of a challenge getting the fingering right while also hitting marks with the marching formations. But, he's better now than he was three hours ago and knows that by this time tomorrow night, he'll be even _better_.

"Too far to the left, Blaine."

He rolls his eyes at the sound of Kurt's voice and adjusts.

"Sloppy, trumpets. Keep it staccato."

Seeing as that correction is from the tower, he simply buzzes his lips, flips his fingers over the valves and nails the next few measures with precision.

"Shift forward on the 40, not two steps before it."

_Jesus – he's relentless._ He fights his urge to step directly into Kurt's path, deciding instead to frack a note right into his ear as they spin off to go in opposite directions for a new formation.

"Control, trumpets…control."

_Do they miss_ nothing _?_

"Okay, take your last water break, then we'll do one final run-through."

Blaine makes his way over to the trumpets' water jugs, tossing a few blue ones aside until he finds his own.

"If you'd put your name on it, you could find it easier."

"Yes, I'm aware. I just got the thing today, remember?"

"Mmm."

Blaine's plan was to follow his mother's advice and kill-him-with-kindness, but at the moment, he just wants to kill him. Fortunately, Kurt isn't in a social mood and after taking a long pull of water, he takes off to annoy someone else. Thing is, whenever he approaches other people, no one seems annoyed at his presence.

"Don’t let him get to you. He really does mean well."

Blaine spins around to Santana's smiling face and can't help the eye roll that follows. "Apparently, I am not the Kurt Whisperer."

"No. And don’t expect to be. You're sort of trampling his garden of marching band dreams."

"I'm showing up to rehearsals and doing my job." When Santana's only answer is a non-committal shrug, Blaine changes the subject. "So, I seem to have a knack for finding the people I need to avoid. Tell me who's cool around here."

"Who do you need to avoid? Besides Chelsea."

"Kurt. Obviously. And um…the flute player over there? Rhonda? Robin?"

"Rachel?"

"Yes! She is—"

"Harmless. And one of us. And yes, a royal pain in the ass. Just remember that she's completely incapable of realizing that most people don't care about the same things she cares about, you'll be good."

"Noted. And, Artie? Disco? He seems cool."

They look together up at the first level of the tower where Artie sits in his wheelchair discussing the next round of torture for rehearsal with Ms. Jones. "Disco is the best. That lift we got for him to get up on his stand there? Massive band fund raiser last year. We raised over two grand just because we wanted him to be field commander this year."

"He's good, too. Our field commanders were just for show. Flapped their arms in time with that weird corps style motion. If we ever followed them, we'd fall apart."

"Follow Disco. Always. He's the center. He's the one in charge once Jonesy and Beaman are done with us."

"Right. Okay, who else?"

"Let's see, no more flutes, clarinets suck, as we previously discussed." She does a perfect blow job motion with her hand and continues. "And the only other woodwind in our group is Mercedes. The lovely lady in purple playing sax."

"Didn't she have a solo last year? You guys did Wicked, right?"

"Yeah, and she rocked the stands every time."

"I remember her."

"We remember you, too. And that's part of Kiki's problem."

"Sorry?"

Santana continues the introductions, pointing out their closest friends, who is dating whom, who has dated whom and of course, who she is dating.

"I know Brittany – she lives next door. She's—" Blaine screws his face up trying to come up with a good, semi-polite yet accurate word.

"Mine. Nini's mine. So, watch how you finish that sentence."

"Oh. I'm—I didn't mean. Well. Actually, I did mean." He watches as Brittany works her flag, running through a set from the opener. She has finesse and strength and grace, and her skill outshines how dim she appeared at their first meeting. "But, I apologize. Is she head of color guard?"

"Yep. With Q-bert and Sugar. Our guard takes top honors at every competition."

"Disco, Q-bert, Nini, Kiki." Blaine shakes his head trying to keep it all straight. "So, Snix, what's a guy gotta do to get a kickass nickname around here?"

Santana smiles and pats Blaine's cheek, somehow making it feel more like the kiss of Judas than a touch of encouragement. "Around here? We earn it."

~~~**~~~

"Atten-HUT!"

"HUT!"

"Reset from the top. Let's do the opener in one run-through and get out of here." The band starts to reassemble, a new energy radiating through them knowing this is the last five minutes of a four-hour hell. "Oh! And use your music! No one knows it well enough to go without yet."

Blaine scoffs and takes his place on the 40-yard line, music tucked into the side pocket of his gig bag. After eight hours of rehearsal and a little practice at home earlier, he knows it. Fat Bottomed Girls starts in F, eight measures, transitioning to Breakthrough in C, the repetitive staccato pattern is firmly under his fingers. I've got this.

The show starts with a full brass sound, trumpets on a rich, harmonizing lead and they nail it. Drum corps perfect.

About three measures into Breakthrough, a low rumble of thunder rolls across the sky and shakes Blaine just enough that he forgets a low brass break, setting his memory of the song off into a tailspin. Naturally, it happens just as his line is crossing Kurt's and he tries to divert the oncoming glare to get his momentum back.

"If you'd have your music…"

"Fuck off." He knows this, he knows. He waits until the next downbeat to bring in the staccato rhythm as the woodwinds take the melody, only he's a measure early. He drops his horn, checks the sky to guess at how far away the storm might be. He keeps up with the marching formations and decides to wing it, knowing the chord structures well enough to ad lib. 

Now his timing is perfect, his melody is close enough and as he regains his confidence, he's sailing above the rest of the trumpet section with a counter melody that harmonizes so perfectly it's as though it had been written. 

No one stops him. Artie is still directing to the end of the closer. And once they get there, Blaine is kicking out the full band's staccato pattern perfectly harmonized above the rest of the trumpet section. As soon as the last note sounds, Blaine popping off the G6 he'd hit during warm-up, the entirety of the band explodes with whoops and hollers, loving the new addition to their sound.

"Take a bow, Mr. Anderson. That was lovely." So, Blaine does, except the applause has silenced and Jonesy's tone is anything but grateful and appreciative. "Now, we'll all stand here and wait for you to go to the sidelines and get your music."

The grumbles and complaints are almost as loud as the applause had been, as loud as the thunder is becoming. Blaine glances up at the sky and shifts his footing, a fight or flight swirling around him. "I—I don’t have a lyre. I thought I had it memorized."

"You don't. Get your flip folder, hold it in your hand and meet all of us back at chart number one. We run through from the top, band." Groans fill the practice field, with a few Oh Come ON!  outbursts. "Also, this is a great opportunity for any of you who seem to think you have this down after two days to get your music. That sounded like crap."

Three or four others join Blaine on the side lines, digging through their belongings to get their flip folders while everyone else shoots daggers out of their eyes. Parents begin to arrive for pick up, the skies continue to darken and everyone's energy is zapped believing they would be done by now.

"Go ahead, Disco. Let's get this show on the road."

This time, this time, Blaine nails it. Well, except for that 5-step backwards march where he tripped over his feet after a bolt of lightning cuts into his view, but musically anyway, he nails it. He focuses on his music, his marching and not, most definitely not, the threatening storm.

The whoops and hollers at the end of this run-through are most definitely not for him, but for the reality that they're finally done for the night.

"Come hither! Quick! Quick! Beat the rain!"

Everyone gathers at the foot of the tower, impatient to leave, Blaine simply wishing the ground would swallow him whole. Or, you know, swallow the whole of the band and save him – either option was better than huddling up close to the people who wanted his head. At least he was able to steer clear of Kurt who surely would have a few choice words for his showboating. "And what did we learn tonight, Mr. Anderson?"

"To have my music and stick to the score."

"And, go buy a damned lyre. Your Strad is fitted for one. Band, rehearsal at 5pm tomorrow evening. Jugs with water, not pop Mr. Hudson. Mr. Puckerman, you need to wear shorts, not jeans. I will not have you ruin a sousaphone by passing out from the heat. I'm sure I can stand the sexiness of your legs for a few hours every day. And for the love of god, clarinets, go replenish your reeds from last spring. Dying geese will be sidelined. Beaman, do you have anything?"

"Percussion needs to be here by 3:30 as usual and I think Sue wants flags here at 4."

"Dismissed! Get the hell out of here."

Avoiding Kurt at this point is futile. Their water jugs are in the same pile, their gig bags and cases are near the same yard line. He is going to be eviscerated. Just in case he's lucky, he keeps his head down. At this point, and with the reminder of another crack of thunder, he just wants to get home.

As he steps off-field and reaches for his bag, Kurt shows up and grabs his wrist making him look up into one of the sharpest glares he's ever had to endure. "Never tell me to fuck off on the field. Even if I'm in the wrong, I'm the leader of this section and you will not speak to me that way." Blaine tries to wiggle his wrist free of Kurt's grip, but fails miserably. "Off field, you can get your rage out, but that's not going to happen again on the field, do you understand?"

Blaine holds Kurt's glare and tries to wiggle free one more time. "Just. Fucking—let go of me."

Kurt looks down at their hands and blinks, releasing his wrist but continuing his rant. "For reasons I'll never understand, Jonesy's deemed you worthy of leadership here. But, in my section, we do not showboat. We do not ad lib and we most certainly to do not defy a direct order, which if you missed it tonight, was to have your fucking music for the final run-through."

Blaine is angry. And he's embarrassed. But mostly he's angry. Angry that he's embarrassed. But, he's going to hold Kurt's gaze if it kills him because he'll be damned if this self-appointed King of the Band is going to get under his skin. Even if the angry flare of his eyes shoots blue sparks into the center of his gut and makes his heart skip a beat. Or three. "My most humble apologies, Your Highness."

Kurt steps back and shakes his head. "You know, I was going to compliment you on the improv skills, but your attitude sort of makes me want to puke." He bends over and picks up his jug, along with Blaine's. "Hey, Jonesy! You got a Sharpie up there?"

"I can put my own name on my thermos." Blaine reaches out for it, but Kurt yanks back when Jonesy tosses the marker down. Thunder rumbles around them and Blaine grabs again. "Come on. I want to get home."

"Snix said you wanted a nickname."

"I don't think I really want it to come from you—"

Kurt starts writing along the white edge of the top of the cooler and grins, looking at his handiwork. He hands it back to Blaine. "I don’t think you'll mind this one."

Blaine reads and bites back a smile. "Maynard? Is that a compliment? Coming from you?"

Kurt smirks, a bolt of lightning flashes behind him and Blaine wonders if he's just entered another dimension. "Yeah. It is. Don't make me regret it."


	4. Chapter Three

_Finn: [07-30-11 3:14am]: I think Rachel is sneaking around on me._

_Kurt: [07-3-11 3:16am]: You're in the next room. You couldn't come next door for this? At 3 am?_

_Finn: [07-30-11 3:16am]: I didn't want to interrupt anything…not that you ever do…that._

_Kurt: [07-30-11 3:17am]: Here's the difference, Finn. I'm aware our walls are paper thin. I make sure it's not a community event._

_Finn: [07-30-11 3:18am]: Sorry?_

_Kurt: [07-30-11 3:19am]: Is this going to be a warm milk conversation?_

_Finn: [07-30-11 3:21am]: Yes. With nutmeg, please._

_Kurt: [07-30-11 3:24am]: Give me a few minutes._

**~~~**~~~**

It's the first morning of all-day rehearsals and Kurt is visibly upset about something. He won't tell anyone what it is, but he's been making phone calls and disappearing into the instrument storage room, back out, down the hall to the bathroom, texting frantically and dismissing inquiries from even his closest friends with a flick of his wrist.

He glances up at the clock and sighs heavily, chewing on the inside of his cheek, scanning the room for someone. Anyone. Well, anyone other than the only one he sees. The one who might be able to help without shaming him in front of the entire band like Santana would. But, he'd be shaming himself if he has to ask Blaine for help.

Not yet. It's too soon. The final evening rehearsal from the previous week had been long and tedious and exasperating, Blaine not only finding the need to try to teach some of the trumpet players his amazingly obnoxious Frank Minear method of warming up, but also drawing the attention of every straight female in the band while doing so. At one point, he was afraid Rachel was going to drop her kulats right there on the 50 yard line.

As if the idea of a 17-year-old wearing kulats in 2011 wasn't nauseating enough.

Kurt spent the weekend practicing like a fiend. Scales & arpeggios to stretch his range, last year's show, last year's concert season music, last year's solo & ensemble solo of which he'd received a "Superior so superior there should be a higher rating available," by the judge. The judge every trumpet player in Ohio dreaded because he was so impossible to please.

He practiced until his lips continued buzzing hours after he was finished. And then, he'd go at it again making Finn storm out of the house and his dad finally asking him to give it a rest.

So, he ended his weekend mania by cleaning his rehearsal horn within an inch of its life, removing the valves, the slides, soaking it, snaking it, leaving no spot untouched. He soaked his mouthpiece and brushed the inside and finally shined the silver lacquer until it looked almost new. Well, minus the rehearsal-made dings. But, that's what a less expensive rehearsal instrument was for.

He was sick of Blaine's shiny Stradivarius flashing in the sun. Sick of the notes that came out of it when he apparently needed a little extra attention. Sick of the way the girls in the trumpet section – hell, in the entire band – followed him around like hoard of pre-pubescents stalking Justin Bieber.

But, at the moment, 10 minutes before the longest week in marching band season begins, he is desperate. And a little humiliated. And most definitely irritated at himself. So, he shoves his pride down to his toes, straightens his back and walks over to Blaine who is reclining in a band chair, legs splayed out in front of him as he casually runs through the opener in soft, half-tones.

Before he loses his nerve, he sits down next to him and stares straight ahead waiting for Blaine to stop playing. Which he does instantly.

"Can I help you?"

"I need a favor. And I'd like no one to know I'm asking you."

Blaine sits up and follows Kurt's gaze straight ahead, solidly focused on the white board in the front of the room. "Wait. You want not only a favor – from me? But, you also want it to be some sort of _secret_ favor?"

"Don’t be a dick."

Kurt feels the heat of Blaine's gaze as he side-eyes him. "What, you need a condom or something?"

"Just forget it." Kurt gets up and starts scanning the room for another potential rescuer. "You obviously don't have the maturity to handle a simple request from the one person who could, if he so chooses, make the next three months of your life a living hell."

Blaine lowers his head and chuckles, patting the chair next to him. "Sit down, Kiki. You are wound up so tight I'm surprised you don't spin away."

Kurt reluctantly sits back down, staring forward again. "I left my mouthpiece at home."

"You only have one mouthpiece?"

"Yes, with this horn." He finally looks at Blaine who is bent over digging through his gig bag. "How many does one need?"

Blaine sits up and hands over a small leather pouch. "Well, I seem to need only one this year in marching band, but come jazz band and concert season," he nods toward the pouch for Kurt to unzip it where he finds four shiny silver mouthpieces, "I use two or three depending on what we're playing."

"So you cheat."

"Excuse me? Using the best mouthpiece for the sound you want is not cheating."

"It is _completely_ cheating." Kurt pulls out one of the mouthpieces and rolls his eyes. 7C. Basic. What he uses. This guy truly is all flash and no substance.

"What other hobbies do you have besides music?"

"What?"

"Just answer my question. I'm making a point."

"I bake. And sew some of my own clothes."

Blaine sits up straighter and turns his full body to face Kurt, resting his horn in his bag. "Really?"

"Yes reall—" Kurt shakes his head and closes his eyes. "You had a point?"

"Yeah, I just—you're a pretty complex person, aren't you?"

"Your _point."_

_"_ My point, okay— sewing. My mom used to sew. She had like four pairs of scissors and my brother and I weren't allowed to touch any of them."

"Snips, fabric shears, all-purpose shears and I have a pair of applique scissors for when I cut layers, but only want the top one."

"Right. Are you cheating when you chose one pair over the other?"

"No. I just use whatever tool works—oh." He pulls out another piece and finds the size. "Okay, so do the higher numbered ones really help you hit the high notes?"

"The cup is smaller, so it spins the air faster. It helps a little. You still have to have the chops and the breath support."

"You still have to know how to sew to make a garment."

"Exactly. What do you normally use, and please do not tell me a 7C."

Kurt doesn't answer, pushing his finger into the cup of the 10C and then a 3C he also finds, noting the difference in shape. "Can I play with your 10 today?"

Blaine's right eyebrow shoots up and a smile spreads slowly across his face as Kurt realizes the words that just tumbled out of his mouth. And then he throws his head back and barks a laugh loud enough to draw everyone's attention in the band room.

"You can play with my 10 any day you'd like, sweetheart."

Kurt blushes at Blaine's overly affected deep voice, still giggling and trying to collect himself. "Oh shut up. Your _10_ is probably more like a 3 anyway."

"Yep, that's me. I play loud and high to make up for a lacking dick size." Blaine takes the pouch from Kurt and hands him the 10C piece.

"Thanks. Can I make a suggestion? Because I'm not _totally_ ignorant with these things – my teacher just swears mouthpieces don't help."

"Yeah, I'd be happy to take suggestions from you. You're good."

"Thank you." Kurt, unable to make eye contact, instead watches Blaine zip up the pouch and plop it back into his bag. "Even after I return the 10 today? Try sticking with the 7 for a bit? I know you think it's a beginner mouthpiece, but it'll round out your sound."

"I've been harsh?"

"A bit. Even mid-tone. I mean, at least for marching band. You can use whatever the hell you want in jazz band."

Blaine pulls the 7C out of his case and swaps it out with what he already has in his horn. "Done. And your secret moment of irresponsibility is safe with me."

"As is the secret of your 3-inch dick."

**~~~**~~~**

"Aw, look. Our little rookie is fitting in with the big kids."

Santana slips onto the floor next to Kurt and dumps her paper bag lunch of goodies, cursing as the apple rolls away. "I know. Mike has been trying to teach him how to pop-and-lock for about 20 minutes. It's comical at best."

"Better than you'd do it."

Kurt shoots her a glare and steals a potato chip as soon as she rips the bag open. "Shut the fuck up. I've never claimed to be a dancer."

"I'm hoping he never does either because I'm thinking he might be having a seizure." She peeks over at Kurt's assortment of lunch foods and frowns. "No more snickerdoodles?"

"Ate the last one last night." They sit and eat, watching Mike, Brittany and Blaine goof off while Tina, cymbal crasher extraordinaire, takes video on someone's phone.

"Maybe he'd better stick to the trumpet. This dancing thing isn't going to work for him."

"Uh, no. But, he's sounding better this week – not so tinny."

"He changed mouthpieces. And maybe he's not trying to so hard."

"What'd you do to him, Kiki? Did you scare the poor child?"

"No. I did not. We just—I had to—we had a talk. Monday. And, have you noticed anything different with my playing at all?"

"No. Still fucking perfect and I hate you every time you play because I'll never be anywhere near as good as you."

"Oh please. Your only problem is breath control, Snix. We've been over this. Take lessons."

"Give me money."

"Jonesy's cheap. Take from her."

"I see enough of her butch ass all week. I don't need an extra hour that I'm fucking paying for."

"Nice. Great support—"

"Don’t start lecturing me. I'm not going to go any further with music like you are. I don't see the point in paying for lessons. I'll keep my airy sound, my amazing sight-reading skills and stay perfectly prone to your cunning leadership."

Kurt turns toward her and pulls the sandwich from her mouth before she takes a bite. "Okay, you're never that complimentary. What do you want?"

"I want you to admit that you're jacking off to Maynard in the shower."

"Oh my god." He lets go of her sandwich and turns back to his own food, unable to eat it. "Why are my masturbatory habits suddenly of interest to you?"

"Because he's hot. And you're hot. And you need to get laid. And I'm thinking he probably does too."

"Okay, let me rephrase. Why is my _virginity_ suddenly of interest to you?"

"Your virginity has always been of interest to me. Everyone's is. No one should go longer than necessary without experiencing the amazingness that is sex and orgasms and that blissful feeling of being freshly fucked."

Kurt simply stares at her, watching her lips curl around her bottle of pop, her tongue sneaking out to lick at a stray drop. "I don't know whether to walk away from you or make out with you."

She leans over and plants a wet, pop-flavored kiss square on his lips. When she speaks, her lips brush his, making him shiver in spite of himself. "Go make out with _him_. I'll sit here and watch."

"As amazing as that sounds," he pushes her back and crawls across the floor to get her apple, tossing it to her and staying as far away as possible, "you're going to be sitting and waiting for a very long time."

"What is your problem with the guy? I mean, he's amazing, but he doesn't have your finesse. You know that, he has to know that. Why are you so threatened by him?" She takes a bite of her apple and chews, stopping with her mouth half full. "Don't tell me you're having Doc flashbacks."

Kurt leans his head back against the concrete wall and sighs. "I have no idea. I mean, the showing off is enough to annoy anybody and yes, it's bringing back a bit of Doc."

"But, Kiki – the only person he's annoying is you. Doc annoyed everybody."

"Jonesy doesn't like it. And she loved Doc."

"Jonesy doesn't count. She didn't even laugh when the percussion section did their instrument line-up in the shape of a penis yesterday."

"Maybe you need to be more focused on _her_ sex life then, because that was fucking hilarious. _It's a rocket ship, Jonesy._ What a big bag of dicks."

"My point is that he's doing really well."

"His marching isn't _that well_ and if you aren't seeing that then you aren't paying attention."

"Okay, so he's bullheaded with that. But, you're being nasty with him and that's coming from _me,_ babydoll. He was off by maybe half of a step on the Nate chart and you were on his ass before he even landed and had a chance to adjust."

"We don’t have time to adjust on the Nate chart. And how in the hell does the disgusting mouth-breather get a chart named after him?"

"Because we all hate it. And we hate him."

"Ah. Of course. God, this entire band is a big bag of dicks."

"Well, that'd be your wet dream come true, wouldn’t it?"

"I'm sort of fond of dicks that are actually attached to men." Kurt gets up on his knees and brushes the floor dust from his ass, gathering the flotsam from his lunch. "Look, I'll try to be nicer. He just makes it really, really difficult."

"Because he's so hot you can't see straight?"

Kurt levels his gaze at her and sits back on his feet. "That sure as hell isn't helping anything."

**~~~**~~~**

Kurt isn't sure what link in the this-band-is-a-family chain broke to get him to the point of saying, "Hey, Jonesy. Are we going to rehearse today or just watch the bloodbath about to take place on the 45?" but he's said it and everyone's attention is now focused on the 45-yard line.

Finn and Puck are the cause of his statement. They have yanked their instruments off of their bodies, Puck wiggling out of the twists of his sousaphone and Finn, even in a state of fury, cautiously lifting and resting his huge tenor drum kit to the grass. But now, the idiots are posturing like a couple of pissed-off gorillas, grunting and trying, Kurt assumes, to sound threatening as they chest bump and poke.

_Straight men are idiots._

Just before Jonesy finally snaps out of her zone to see what's going on, Rachel hands her flute to the nearest band member and runs toward them, screeching and flailing like an angry cat. "Noah Puckerman, you leave him alone! It's not his fault I wouldn't let you put your hand up my shirt last night!"

"What!?"

"What?"

"WHAT!?"

"Oh god, someone save me." Kurt plops down on his charted spot on the 38-yard-line catching Blaine's confused expression and laughs because, well, what else is he supposed to do? "Welcome to McKinley Marching Titans."

"I—wait. I thought she was dating Finn?" Even though they're too far away to actually be caught in the cross-fire, they both duck when Puck swings. Finn swerves and Rachel throws herself in between the two of them.

"I think Finn does too. When he's not making out with Q-bert anyway."

"A love _rectangle_? Eh, go big or go home, I guess."

"Stick around long enough it'll be a fucking hexagon. In fact, give me a few minutes and I can probably figure out how it already is."

Beaman lands on the field after clomping down the tower's steel stairs, and Santana is on her feet ready to throw down _someone_ , but it's clear she can't figure out where to start. Jonesy's strapped on her microphone. She has _had it._

"Rachel, get back to your section. Snix, you too. Puck and Finn, sideline your instruments and give me five laps. If I hear one complaint, it'll be ten. Everyone else, reset chart 28. And? I don't _ever_ want to hear what goes on between any two – OR THREE – of you when you're not under my direct supervision. Do you understand?" She sits down and mumbles, "I'm going to have nightmares for a week."

Everyone gets into position while Finn and Puck take their laps, Beaman's ever-glaring eye on them not stopping them from verbally assaulting each other at every opportunity.

"Do not watch or feed the zoo animals, ladies and gentlemen. They're currently in mating season and could probably use some privacy. Disco, start us up!"

Rehearsal is finally underway and all things considered, it goes well. Until it stops. Going well.

The breakdown starts when a color guard member steps on the flag of another member, ripping the practice flag and causing the second girl to bean herself in the head. It would go unnoticed if it weren't for Sue, the advisor, and her insistence on giving commands from a megaphone.

"You'll _pay_ for that flag out of your mother's welfare money!"

Jonesy calls for a water break and then bags it for an early lunch break because after that outburst, no one is really in the mood to cooperate with their fellow band members.

Well, no one but Blaine, who seems to have taken it upon himself to woo the girls in the band— led by none other than Rachel Berry— with his charming humor, dashing good looks and honey-hazel eyes. Kurt thinks he might puke.

There's new music waiting for them to grab and while Kurt loves the process of sight reading, he takes it and his lunch and his horn to a secluded spot in the shade to look it over. It's the ballad portion of the production – the song Kurt has been waiting for since he found out they were performing Queen.

He lets out a squeak when he sees the title and sits down to dump out his lunch. _The Show Must Go On._ He has always dreamt it would be a trumpet feature but figured, at best, it would be a 4 or 8 bar solo. The song is _made_ for a  trumpet solo. So, because this is how things always go for Kurt, the arranger would decide to give it to a sousaphone. With a kazoo feature.

But, as he scans the music and sees _trumpet solo_ marked on bar 16 – and then continue to the end of the piece – he almost chokes on his sandwich. "SNIX! Holy SH—get over here!"

"Are you trying out? Of course you are. Kiki, this is _made_ for you. I bet Jonesy had them write it with you in mind. _Look_ at this thing. It says _Kurt Hummel_ all over it."

"I kn—I mean, you know. It's open auditions and—" Kurt looks up and her and smiles, tossing his sandwich back into its container. "This thing is fucking _mine._ "

"Play it. Play it right now. God, I cannot _wait_ to hear you—Kiki, you are going to blow the house _down._ "

Kurt takes a swig of water and stands back up, leaning against the brick of the building and hands Santana the music. "Be my flip folder." He plays the introduction with only half effort, getting the key in his head, imagining what the other instrumentation will be as it begins. As he continues on with the heartfelt solo, the lyrics run through is head, even though they'll never be heard. If he does it right, they'll be _felt_.

 

_I guess I'm learning, I must be warmer now_  
 _I'll soon be turning, round the corner now_  
 _Outside the dawn is breaking_  
 _But inside in the dark I'm aching to be free_  
 _The show must go on_  
 _The show must go on_  
 _Inside my heart is breaking_  
 _My make-up may be flaking_  
 _But my smile still stays on_

The solo continues and he's standing straighter, focused completely on the score in front of him, playing it with musical arc and a touch as one who has been playing it for years. He stops to check an accidental and puts his horn back to his lips to begin again, but the song has continued from somewhere else in the practice area.

He looks at Santana; it occurs to them simultaneously. "Maynard. Fuck."

Kurt drops his horn to his side and rests his head back onto the rough brick behind him. "Of course he'd—I'd be a fool to think otherwise."

"Well,  yeah. He lead their entire show last year. He's going to want to shine again."

"I won't beat him. He has at least a G."

"What does that have to do with anything? It only goes up to a C. You've got this."

" _Maynard_ has this." Kurt yanks the music out of Santana's hand and tosses it with his abandoned lunch.

"Who the fuck am I listening to right now? This thing is _written_ for you. Not Rookie McWailypants over there. This is _not_ his song."

"It is if Jonesy gives it to him. Doc got everything; why should it  be any different now?"

"One, Blaine isn't Doc and two, he didn't get the solo our sophomore year. Last I recall, that ballad went to one Kurt Hummel."

"It was four bars of middle school level music."

Santana steps into Kurt's personal space bumping his chin up with the mouthpiece of her horn, waiting until he stops rolling his eyes long enough to meet hers. "Ballads are yours. No one can compare. No one should ever try."

Kurt pulls her trumpet from her hands and kisses the tip of her nose. "Your delusions aren't making me feel better this time."

Blaine's solo continues and as Kurt and Santana peek around the side of the building, he goes off page and ad libs the ending, other band members gathering around to hear him work his magic. It's high, sailing and showy – gasps and squeals of glee from his adoring fans puncturing Kurt's hopes yet again.

Just like with Doc.

"I'm not delusional, Kurt. I'm right."

If only he could believe her.


	5. Chapter Four

_Mike [08-04-11 3:21am]: So, how pissed off will you be if we post this video on youtube?_

_Blaine [08-04-11 3:25am]: You're texting me at 3am. What video?_

_Mike [08-04-11 3:26am]: It's a band thing. The video from lunch the other day._

_Blaine [08-04-11 3:27am]: Of me trying to pop & lock? I'll castrate you._

_Mike [08-04-11 3:28am]: Hmmm. This might need further contemplation._

_Blaine [08-04-11 3:29am]: Good plan. I'm going to sleep now. Again._

**~~~**~~~**

Blaine's beginning to wonder if Kurt is bipolar. Not in the true clinical sense, but in the I-can't-fucking-keep-up-with-his-moods sense. One minute he's nice and blue-sparkly eyed with that swoosh of hair over his forehead, laughing right alongside him being the most beautiful boy Blaine's ever seen, and the next minute he's angry and ragey and stompy and basically the ugliest thing Blaine has ever seen in boy form.

It's the morning of the last day of home band camp, the week everyone has told him would be the hardest week in marching season. Now that he's almost done with it, he can see how that's most definitely true. Making matters worse, he's not slept well for two nights, visions of the past week's events spinning wildly in his mind.

Mid-week rehearsals seemed to go okay, but shortly after the music for _Show Must Go On_ was passed out, everything shifted. Rachel had started making googly eyes at him which sort of made his stomach feel gross, and last night Sugar, one of Nini's color guard assistants, saved a potentially tragic flag mishap by doing a very ballerina-esque roundhouse kick to a projectile flag pole.

But it was Kurt's impatience that rang in his ears like the gong of a grandfather clock striking twelve, over and over in constant loop.

_Maynard, you're bumping the curve. Your steps are still too big on that transition!_

BONG.

_I'm sorry Jonesy, I couldn't hear you over the brass explosion that continues out of Maynard's horn after you call "CUT!"_

BONG. BONG.

_Maynard, pianissimo, for the LOVE. It means stop blasting like a fucking fog horn._

BONG. BONG. BONG.

_Did anyone teach you how to blend with your neighbor?_

BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG!!!

And then there was the look on Kurt's face after they accidentally agreed to room together for next week's bandcamp at Hocking College— an intensive week, but away from home, twelve-hour days, no home-cooked meals, no familiar bed to fall into at the end of the day – and to add spice to the mess – roommates.

They had been standing at the window of Jonesy's office with the room sign-ups, Kurt holding the pencil that was strung to a suction cup on the glass, already looking resigned to having to room with someone like Nate. Or worse? Andrew, the chimes player from pit who had an overbite big enough to fit a baby carrot between his top teeth and his bottom lip.

_"So, I talked to Mike to see if he wanted to room with me, but I guess he already fixed it up with Sam." Blaine pointed up at their names scribbled by room 520B. "Who are you rooming with?"_

_"I have no idea. Just so it's not Finn, but I'm pretty sure he's going to be with Puck."_

_"Don't want Nate either."_

_"Oh god, no. Or Andrew."_

_"Maybe they should room together."_

_"That would be best for all concerned." Kurt sighed and looked over at Blaine who offered a shy smile. "I'm just going to put in with Mike and Sam's suite and get who I get, I guess."_

_He watched Kurt sign his name with extra curly queues and swirls, "Kurt E. Hummel."_

_"E. What's your middle name?"_

_The pencil faltered on the last swoop of the l in his name and Kurt let the pencil dangle from the string. He saw stress in Kurt's brow that made little sense— how complicated is a middle name?_

_"Well, I tell people it's Elizabeth. For my mother. I—I told you about—right?"_

_"Yeah, yeah, you did." He hoped his eyes conveyed his true concern – a cruel joke the world plays when it takes a mother from her child. "I bet she'd like that."_

_"Probably, but it just set me up for more torment. It's really Elliott."_

_"Which is a good name, too. Mine's Devon."_

_"Blaine Devon Anderson. It has good rhythm."_

_"Yeah, I’m kind of fond of it."_

_They stare at the list again and Kurt sighs heavily before pointing to the blank under his name. "If you want, go ahead and sign your Blaine Devon with me. Mike will still be in our suite."_

_"Do—do you mind? You sure that's okay?"_

_Kurt shrugged in the most non-committal, non-give-a-damn way that Blaine wondered if maybe rooming with Nate wasn't such a bad gig. "It's not like we're in there for more than sleep anyway. Whatever." He turned and started towards the instrument room but stopped before disappearing inside. "Auditions for the solo are Sunday night. When you get it, thank me for reminding you."_

And it was that look. A look of resignation. Of _I really sort of hate you._ Of _I wish you'd never moved here_ that haunted Blaine overnight the most. It was a look that wasn't one to keep tucked under his pillow at night, but there it was, poking at him and waking him every time he dared to slip under sleep's spell.

So, he starts the final rehearsal of home band camp completely exhausted. Everyone is exhausted because one solid week of eight hour days, marching around on a black-topped practice field in Ohio's August heat would exhaust the most fit of athletes. It's partially why marching band counts as a physical education credit. They work their asses off. But, add a few nights of sleeplessness because of one Kurt Hummel – who incidentally is already riding your ass about doing half-assed crunches – well, it's going to be a longer eight-hour day than usual.

Jonesy is cranky.

Beaman is crankier.

Ms. Sylvester seems to have her megaphone glued to her mouth.

Brittany is sidelined with a heat headache before 10 am. "I think my head turned into a balloon. Filled with bricks."

Two of his four squad members barf after lunch because they eat too much too fast and haven't properly hydrated all day. Blaine has to do laps for letting it happen and he has to do them with Kurt watching, no— _scowling_ at him with every step.

It goes from bad to worse to horrible and when 5pm finally rolls around. Rehearsal is finally over and all he wants to do is get in his mom's car, find swim trunks and dive into their pool and float. For hours. Until he prunes. Or evaporates. Whichever comes first.

So, when he hikes his gig bag up over his shoulder, waving to Rachel and Tina as they wheel out of the parking lot and his phone buzzes with a message from his mother, he's not feeling very happy.

_Janet [08-05-11 5:09pm]: Hey sweetie. Change of plans at work. Can you find a ride home? Love you!_

He looks up at the student parking lot and there is one car left with one boy getting into the car.

Kurt.

_Fuck me sideways._

He shoots a text back to his mother hoping maybe, possibly, maybe—

_Blaine [08-05-11 5:10pm]: Mom you're telling me now that rehearsal's over? Everyone's gone. Can't you come get me and go back to the office?_

_Janet [08-05-11 5:11pm]: No. Actually, the boss has taken some of us to his country club for dinner. It was last minute._

_Blaine [08-05-11 5:11pm]: Thanks. Mom. That's…wonderful._

He shoves his phone in his pocket and sees Jonesy's car by the building, but that sounds worse than walking the almost-two miles in the scorching heat. He plops himself down on the curb and buries his head in his hands as he tries to figure out what to do.

"Maynard? You okay?"

He looks up to see Kurt's car idling next to him, window down. "Yeah, I'll be fine. See you Sunday."

Kurt slowly pulls forward and stops again, backing up. "Miss your ride?"

"No. Sort of. It's not coming. I'll—I'll get Jonesy to take me home, I guess."

"Get in."

"Kiki, I'm fine. You live in the opposite direction."

Kurt doesn't move. After a few moments, Blaine hears the door locks click and he finally stands. Kurt is staring at him, blowing air on his forehead, lifting the ever-present swirl of hair up and back down again to stick to his sweaty skin. "You have 10 more seconds, Maynard. The a/c isn't doing its job with that window open. Stop being so fucking stubborn."

At that Blaine has to laugh. "You're calling _me_ stubborn?" But, he puts his pride away and opens the door, sliding in with a bashful smile and a sigh of relief when the cool air hits his face. "Yeah, okay. This is much better than standing out there finding the nerve to ask Jonesy."

Kurt pulls forward and rolls the window back up. "For the record, she'd have taken you. Probably only complained once about how far out of the way it is. Even if it isn't."

"Thanks."

"You'd do the same for me."

Blaine angles the air vents to his neck and leans back against the headrest. "Yeah, as much as you piss me off, I would."

**~~~**~~~**

"It's that driveway right past Brittany's."

"Oh! I didn't even—" Kurt turns onto the gravel drive and frowns. "I didn't even know there was a house back here."

"Yeah, it's sort of hidden. You don't hear the road noise, which is nice."

Blaine's house is along a fairly busy street, but all of the homes are set back from the road, each having a full acre of property surrounding it. His, however is far back off a winding gravel drive, hidden further by trees and ornamental bushes.

They make the final turn toward the sprawling ranch home. Blaine's house is set upon acres of perfectly manicured land extending behind the property of each of their neighbors. The house itself is large enough to fit two of Kurt's homes inside and there's an outbuilding with what looks like a mother-in-law suite on its second floor.

It doesn't fit on this road.

It most definitely doesn't fit in _Lima_.  And Blaine knows it.

Kurt gapes at the virtual estate before him and puts the car in park. "Holy shit. This is an enormous, _beautiful_ home."

Blaine chuffs quietly and bends to pick up his cooler and gig bag. "It's not a home. It's my father's absolution."

The silent beat before Kurt speaks is uncomfortably long and Blaine goes for the car door handle to just end it. He said more in four words than he ever really wanted to, especially to Kurt. But, just as he grabs at the door, "He must have fucked up—considerably."

Blaine chuckles and sits back in his seat, dropping his belongings and taking in the vastness of the property, the house itself, the utter ridiculousness of it all. "Well, if the pretty blonde and two small children currently living in my house in Wapak have anything to do with it, yeah. I'd say so."

"Oh. Damn. I'm—I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry I said anything. You don't need to hear my family shit." He watches Kurt mull things over, watches his brow furrow and relax, watches him start to say something and then stop himself _._ "It's partially why I wasn't prepared for the start of the season. It's just me and mom now and while we have the house and furnishings, we don't have much of anything else. He paid his penance and sort of left us on our own."

Kurt looks to him, brow slightly furrowed and concern in his eyes. "I really am sorry, Blaine. I had no idea."

"Would it have made a difference? You'd still hate me, wouldn't you?"

The furrow in Kurt's brow smooths as his eyebrows raise and his mouth falls open – and then Blaine regrets saying anything. They're both exhausted and there probably isn't a worse time to be asking the questions he's been wanting to ask since he met Kurt a week and a half ago. But, the question is out now, pooling between them like a green smelly ooze.

Kurt turns his attention back to his steering wheel, his shoulders slumped. "I don't hate you. In fact, while I'm loathe to admit it," he looks back up to Blaine and sighs. "I don’t even dislike you. Much as I want to."

"Why do you _want_ to dislike me? I mean, I'm sorry I showed up and screwed up your plans for your senior year? It's not like I really wanted to be here anyway."

Kurt rolls the windows down and shuts off the engine, the pained look still firmly in place.

"I know I'm hard on you and probably entirely too demanding, but she put you in a leadership role and you have to know more than your squad, be better than your squad. Better at everything, not just hitting higher notes than their dogs can hear."

"Am I at least improving?"

"You're doing fine – for the most part. Your marching is still—" Blaine could swear Kurt was asking permission to be honest.

"Just say it."

"It's still sloppy. In motion, it looks great, but your steps are uneven, your spacing is uneven. And those chart hits _have_ to be exact."

"Okay, that's all fine and good— and you're right— but it just feels so much more personal."

"I know." Kurt looks down at his steering wheel and picks at a stray thread on the leather cover.

"Look, I didn't come here to unseat you. Or anyone. And—and maybe that's the problem? I didn't even know you existed."

"You would have no way of knowing I existed. I was just another trumpet player in a band three times the size of yours." Kurt sighs and moves to fuss with a thread at the hem of his shorts. "I've been waiting for this year since I was a freshman. _I_ was going to lead and I was going to—" Kurt lifts his chin defiantly. "I had plans. And then you show up and I'm shoved right back in the shadows."

"You're—Kiki, you are _not_ in anyone's shadow. I'm not even sure that's possible."

"It feels like I am. It just feels like Doc all over again."

"Okay, who is this Doc dude? I hear his name whispered like some dark band secret and—"

"Lead trumpet 2009 – 2011. Larger than life – in sound, in personality, in…everything. He was a first rate _ass_. He finally graduated. It's supposed to be my turn."

"Okay, but see, I'm not Doc."

"I'm slowly figuring that out, which is why I don’t hate you." Kurt looks back up at the house and blows out a huge puff of air. "But, now I sort of feel like a first rate ass myself."

"What's going on in my family life really shouldn't make any difference. And if you think you should have expected less of me because I have some broken home crap going on – which probably half the band has anyway – then maybe you're not the leader you think you are."

"Maybe not. But, I'd like to think I can be a compassionate person. And I really have steamrolled you."

"I can take it. And I came in with the wrong attitude – just assuming there wouldn't be any competition here just like in Wapak."

Kurt smiles this time. "Surprise."

Blaine chuckles. "It's alright. I'm kind of getting a kick out of having to work harder to get less. And I don’t enjoy pity, so—"

"Then I'm still going to ride your ass."

They share a smile and Blaine decides to take another risk because when Kurt smiles, Blaine sort of forgets any horrible things he might have said to him during rehearsals. "Look, my mom? She, um. She makes the best lemonade. Do—do you want to come in? And maybe take a swim? We have this huge pond/pool… thing in back. I've been looking forward to diving in since Chelsea missed barfing on me by only a foot."

"Yeah, that was a special sort of Technicolor, wasn't it?"

Blaine shivers at the memory and looks back to Kurt, his eyes asking one more time. Because this might be a good time to wash off the last few weeks of stink between them and start over. Before they're bumping into each other in close quarters at bandcamp wearing nothing more than underwear and morning hair. Before Blaine's stuck in a room looking at Kurt's long pale legs and dreaming about his mouthpiece-swollen lips. Basically, before Blaine combusts from pent up attraction, anger and confusion. "So, lemonade?"

Kurt starts to answer and stops himself, checking the clock on his dash. "I—I'm sorry. I can't. Not tonight."

Blaine nods and makes for his door handle again, mumbling to himself. "One step too far."

"No, Blaine look—I would. It sounds great, but my dad has this thing for Friday night dinners, and since I'll be missing 10 weeks of them with football season—"

"You've got a good thing with your dad, huh?"

"Yeah. I do."

Blaine fidgets with the handle on his gig bag, tamping down jealousy and disappointment and the swirling thoughts that are clouding his brain. Like _Are you just being nice because you feel sorry for me now, because that would be pathetic and awful so please don’t_ , or _I wonder what you'd do if I leaned over and kissed you right now_. Instead he says nothing, grateful when Kurt speaks again.

"Maybe after football season's over, you can come over one Friday. Join us."

"I wouldn't want to intrude on a family thing."

"It's not an intrusion if you're invited."

Blaine held Kurt's gaze for longer than he ever had since they met, trying to find the catch in Kurt's invitation, but couldn't see further than the softness in Kurt's eyes – the blue-gray color on the puffed edges of sunny day clouds. "Seems so far away from now, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, the season feels like it goes on forever, but it's always over in a flash."

They sit in silence again until Kurt fidgets with his keychain and Blaine snaps out of his thoughts. "I'm sorry. Go, have a good dinner. And I'll see you Sunday." He finally succeeds in opening his door, but as he slides out—

"Maynard?"

"Yeah?"

Kurt has his phone out and is offering it to him. "Put your number in there. In case you need a ride— or whatever."

"Oh, I can just have Brittany get me—"

"Oh. Well, okay. I just thought—"

Blaine mentally kicks himself and reaches for the phone. "No, you're right. With only one car, it's bound to happen again." He takes the phone with a shy smile and punches his number in. "Text me so I have yours."

"I will as soon as I get home."

_I_ really _wonder what you'd do if I leaned over and kissed you right now._ "Okay. Thanks for the ride."

Fifteen minutes later, Blaine's phone buzzes and he considers hunting online for a picture of Kurt to put in place of his name on his caller ID but then thinks better of it.

_Kurt [08-05-11 5:41pm]: Here's my number. And Finn invited Rachel tonight. I should have defied my dad and stayed for lemonade._

_Blaine [08-05-11 5:42pm]: Oh no! Do you have invisible ear plugs or something?_

_Kurt [08-05-11 5:42pm]: Ha! I wish._

_Kurt [08-05-11 5:43pm]: Thanks for calling me out tonight._

_Blaine [08-05-11 5:44pm]: Well, I figure the section will work better if you and I get along._

_Kurt [08-05-11 5:45pm]: It will. Don't practice too hard for the solo._

_Blaine [08-05-11 5:46pm]: Keep dreaming, Hummel. You're going to have to earn this one._

 


	6. Chapter Five

_Kurt [08-06-11 3:07am]: He thinks I hate him._

_Santana [08-06-11 3:10am]: Can you blame him?_

_Kurt [08-06-11 3:11am]: Am I that awful to him?_

_Kurt [08-06-11 3:14 am]: I can hear your silent judgment from here._

_Santana [08-06-11 3:15am]: Do you want Santana or Snix?_

_Kurt [08-06-11 3:15am]: Santana. Snix. I don’t care, just be honest with me._

_Santana [08-06-11 3:16am]: You’ve been kind of a dick._

_Kurt [08-06-11 3:17am]: He makes me crazy._

_Santana [08-06-11 3:17am]: You want a visit tomorrow before we dive into this treachery otherwise known as band camp? I see you’re rooming with him, which makes me think he really is making you crazy._

_Kurt [08-06-11 3:18am]: I am. He is. It’s going to be special. Tmrw at 2? Bring your horn. You’re trying out for the Don’t Stop Me Now duet._

_Santana [08-06-11 3:19am]: I am not, but I’ll bring my horn. I need help with that damned lick in Breakthrough. My squad has it down and I’m still bumbling._

_Kurt [08-06-11 3:21am]: I figured you’d never have a fingering problem with all the practice you and Nini get._

_Santana [08-06-11 3:20am]: Go to sleep, Kiki._

_Kurt [08-06-11 3:21am]: You’re trying out._

_Santana [08-06-11 3:22am]: Go to SLEEP, Kiki._

**~~~**~~~**

Away bandcamp is one of those events in high school where you equally dread it and lose sleep with excitement for it. When it’s over, it simultaneously feels like you’ve spent a week in hell and a week making the best memories that will last a lifetime. And regardless of the outcome, all of those feelings are dead-on accurate. It’s exhausting. Exhilarating. Sometimes, it’s even life-changing.

And for the seniors of McKinley’s Marching Titans, they’re  _all_ shooting for life-changing. Never again will this group of people be together like this. Never again will they work so hard, sweat so much (oh god, so much sweat), laugh so honestly and bond in ways that truly will make this band a family.

It’s a three-hour drive from Lima to Hocking College, 150 students, their luggage and instruments all crammed into four school busses and one trailer. To the average person, it sounds like it would be hell-on-wheels. And depending on who your chaperone is, it most likely  _is_ hell-on-wheels. Band moms as chaperones? Boo. Ardent rule followers and only a rare few of them have a decent sense of humor.

Come  _on._ The word “penis” is funny, especially when randomly shouted at the top of one’s lungs in the middle of the journey. Even while mumbling,  _plebian,_ Kurt always gets a chuckle out of it.

_"Plebian? We’re royalty now?"_

_Kurt looks across the aisle to Blaine and blushes that he was heard. “Hell yes, we are. We’re seniors. Therefore, royalty.”_

_"I think it was Puck. Isn’t he a sen—"_

_"Don’t get weighed down by details."_

Fortunately, the high- and low-brass get Jonesy, and while that sounds formidable, it always ends up a good time. The rules on all busses are simple: no foul language – and to Jonesy, a body part is not foul language – boys on one side, girls on the other after dark – always a particularly fun rule for the gay kids, and you can sing as many stupid songs as you want – volume is chaperone-dependent. With Jonesy, it’s dependent on if she has a headache or not. Finally, no one’s allowed to barf but unless you happen to be the one who needs to barf, everyone’s on board with that particular rule.

They arrive in what feels like no time and it’s a mass of organized chaos getting the band members and all of their belongings up into the dorm rooms before the first field rehearsal.

"You get 30 minutes to unpack, wash up if necessary, and get your asses out to the practice field. Rookies, if you don’t know where that is, make friends with an upperclassman posthaste. You should have done that by now anyway."

Duffle bags, backpacks, instrument cases of every shape and size, bed rolls and of course, plastic boxes filled with every assortment of snack and electronic device are shoved into the elevators – so much stuff that it’s hard to even see the students who are carrying them. Eventually, Kurt and Blaine get their turn on the elevator and stumble into their room.

"Nice! For a dorm room—" Blaine tosses his duffle and bed roll on a bunk and immediately starts opening the built-in cabinets inspecting the space. He slides open the door to the jack-and-jill bathroom and points.

"Sam and Mike?"

"Yep."

"Beats having to trek down a muddy path to bathrooms like we did at Camp Wilson with Wapak’s band camp. God, that place sucked."

"We’re the only school that gets to use these dorms. They were remodeled last year and they don’t trust anyone else to keep them nice."

"This group? Keeps shit nice?"

"Yes. That’s why the rules are so stiff. Jonesy expects complete professionalism from us when we’re representing the school."

Kurt watches as Blaine putters around the room, meticulously stacking their snacks into one of the cabinets, unloading the cases of pop and water into the mini-fridge and finally standing up with a grin. “Which bed do you want?”

"This one’s—this one is fine." He’s nervous. And uncomfortable. And Blaine is just there. Being perky and organized and whistle-y and oblivious to the potential doom that could befall them this week. Accidental naked moments and morning wood and morning hair and morning breath and oh for the love of god, mornings are going to be horrible. And night time. And sleeping with him in the same room. And showering right after he has – or before and knowing—

Kurt just might die right here in the middle of Nelsonville, Ohio. He still can’t believe he offered to room with Blaine.

Instead of dying, he decides to make up his bed and put his clothes into drawers and figure out how to set up their mini-dvd player for movies before bed. Blaine brought snacks; Kurt brought entertainment. “I have a couple of power strips for all of our electronic crap, although I don’t know why we all bring this much stuff. We’re in our rooms so little.”

"I guess everyone wants a slice of home."

"After you eat breakfast tomorrow, you’ll be wanting more than a slice."

"That bad?"

"We tell the rookies to make sure they eat the eggs, but I’ll cut you a break." He stands after surreptitiously getting his underwear from duffle to drawer, slamming it closed. "Avoid the eggs. At all costs."

"Noted. Any other secrets to keeping my head above water?" Blaine’s bed is made in a flash seeing as he brought a sleeping bag and a pillow.

"Don’t play chicken against Snix. She’d drown Jesus if given the chance."

"Oh, well. She may have met her match. I’m  _amazing_  at chicken.”

The idiot actually flexes and Kurt hides his interest at Blaine’s well-toned arms with an eye roll. “Make sure I’m around to see that one go down.”

"I will. In fact, you should be my teammate. We can take her – easy."

"I am horrible at chicken, but I’m an expert observer."

"Nah. You just haven’t had the right partner yet." Kurt shakes his head as Blaine grins and smacks a baseball cap on his head, curls squirting out from under it like clown hair. "Okay, boss. Where’s the practice field?"

**~~~**~~~**

Kurt is convinced the practice field is located in the 7th ring of hell. At one point during afternoon rehearsal he was stupid enough to check the temperature – 97 degrees, with a 105-degree heat index. And while heat supposedly rises, the valley that houses their practice field feels even worse.

For a short day, it’s a long day. It’s scorchingly hot and the marching is clunky and awkward as the rookies get used to the uneven footing of the grassy field versus the blacktopped parking lot they use at school. The realization that at day’s end they have four more full days to look forward to – four full, multi-rehearsal, multi-hour days – it’s a miracle no one calls home to mommy.

But, the first day is blessedly over. Kurt is properly showered, dressed in low-slung gym shorts and a worn-out t-shirt from his dad’s tire shop. While Blaine showers, Kurt sets up the DVR player, pours drinks and over-fluffs his pillows 20 times. As the minutes tick by, he regrets his decision to invite Blaine to room with him more and more. If Blaine walks out of the shower in only a towel—

_Santana [08-07-11 10:45 pm]: Have you seen his little Maynard yet?_

It’s as if she could see through walls.

_Kurt [08-07-11 10:46 pm]: Do you need a hobby?_

_Santana [08-07-11 10:47 pm]: I have one. Getting you laid._

_Kurt [08-07-11 10:48 pm]: It’s not happening here. Go make-out with Nini._

_Santana [08-07-11 10:48pm]: She’s in the shower. We didn’t think Q and Sugar would appreciate the audio from there._

_Kurt [08-07-11 10:49pm]: And yet you thought asking me if I’ve seen  Blaine’s dick would be a viable alternative._

_Santana [08-07-11 10:50pm]: I’m always thinking of you, Kiki._

_Kurt [08-07-11 10:50pm]: He’s here. It’s Avenue Q night. Go away._

_Santana [08-07-11 10:51pm]: There’s a fine, fine line between a lover and a friend…_

_Kurt [08-07-11 10:52pm]: There’s a fine, fine line between love and a waste of time._

Kurt plugs in his phone and puts it on silent. 3am texts are not happening at band camp. And if they are? He is sleeping through them.

Blaine walks in from the bathroom— and good god damn, he  _is_  only wearing a towel around his waist— drying his hair, humming  _The Internet is for Porn._  Kurt can’t decide whether to laugh or cry, so he sings along taking the prudish Katie’s part until they’re both giggling too hard to continue. Blaine’s Trekkie imitation is one for the record books.

It also means his voice is even deeper than usual when he tries to talk again – which is highly unfair. “So, how are we going to do this with that little screen?”

"We either sit at the desk or lay down on the same bed."

"Bed. I’m dead."  _Of course, bed. Why did I even suggest otherwise?_

And that’s how they watch, and pause to laugh, and discuss other musicals they have yet to see but are dying to. And that’s how Kurt learns that, even when wet, the curls in Blaine’s hair deliciously tickle his chin when Blaine leans his head near Kurt’s shoulder during giggle fits. Never on because, no – but near.

They’re about half-way through watching the boot-legged copy of the musical when the hall lights flicker indicating lights-out.

"Crap. How strict are they about it?"

Kurt sits up and turns off the video. “Strict. Like everything else. We get about 10 minutes to do whatever we need and then they start pounding on doors if they see any light creeping into the halls.”

"Damn."

"Again I say—"

"I know, I know. This is how we win competitions."

Ten minutes later, their lights are out and Kurt pops his iPod into the clock radio before getting into bed. “‘Night, Maynard.”

“‘Night.”

The quiet is horrible. The mattress is like rock. His pillow doesn’t feel remotely like his own, even though it is. The sink is dripping in an unusual rhythm and even the effort of trying to dictate the pattern into visual notation fails at lulling Kurt to sleep.

Based on the sighing and shuffling and rolling to and fro from the other bed, it’s clear Blaine is struggling as well. “You awake?”

"Yep. You?"

"No, I talk in my sleep."

Kurt throws a pillow at Blaine and then cusses because he sort of needs that pillow. “Um. Shit. Gimme.”

Blaine throws it back and scolds. “Jackass. How quiet – I mean, do they fucking patrol the halls?”

"I forgot to see who our main monitor is tonight. Depends."

"Jesus."

_Drip. Drip. Drippity drip clank._

_Shuffle, twist, roll. Drip._

_Tinkle tinkle tinkle._

"Someone forgot to pee before lights out."

"Money it was Sam."

"I’m not taking that bet."

_Tinkle tinkle flush_.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

"Yep, it was Sam. Dude never washes his hands."

Ten minutes later, neither of them are asleep and Kurt wonders if they might have inadvertently begun a competition as to who can sigh more melodramatically than the other. Finally, after more moments of shifting and sighing and dripping and almost maybe sleep begins to take over—

"I’m hungry."

"Are you fucking kidding me, Maynard?"

"Not even a little bit. Will the microwave light up too much?"

"Shhh. They’ll  _hear_ us.”

"Sorry. Whispering."

"Can’t you just eat a handful of Doritos and call it a night?"

Before Kurt even realizes Blaine’s out of bed, he’s waving a box from the mini fridge in his face singing about a snack. “Pizza rolls, Kiki. Cheesy. Taco. Pizza rolls.”

Kurt sighs – ever the long-suffering roommate – and sits up, scrubbing his hand over his face. “Put a shirt over the front so it won’t light up so much.”

"Sweet!" Blaine hushes himself and Kurt can’t help but laugh at the fool. "See? Without me as a roommate, you’d wouldn’t be having this much fun."

"But I’d be asleep." Kurt flops back onto his bed and grabs for his phone, swiping his finger across it to turn on the light. "Can you see okay?"

"Oooh, thank you. And really, sleep or fun – you’d pick sleep?"

"I suppose we can sleep once we’re dead."

"Yes. There you go."

"Which should come sometime Thursday. Assuming we live  _that_  long.”

"Are you always this big of a buzzkill?" He slams the microwave shut and Kurt reprimands him, followed by giggles and more shushes. Which is good because Blaine’s whispered tones are low and throaty and they rumble deep in Kurt’s chest.

"No, I just don’t want to get in trouble." They’re silent while the snack cooks, hoping it’s not too loud and deciding that Blaine should stop it a second before it dings finished, which he does.

"See, though," Blaine hisses and squeaks as he picks up a roll too soon, bringing the plate over to Kurt’s bed and climbing on it with him, "we can live through any punishment. We have pizza rolls."

"You’re a dumbass."

"I’m a genius." Blaine pops a roll into his mouth hissing more and flapping his hands in front of his mouth from the burn while Kurt waits patiently for them to cool. And laughs.

"Dumbass."

"Yes. Dumbass. You win this round." He pulls another one apart to let it cool, setting it on the plate and leaning back against the wall. "So," he stops himself and lowers his voice again, "I heard your audition tonight."

"You—you did? No one was supposed to be in there."

"I know. Chelsea decided to audition—"

"Chel—what?"

"I know. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it’ll never happen, but she needed the music since she plays what? 3rd?”

"If we had a 4th or 10th part, she’d play that. Oh god, poor Jonesy. And if you,” Kurt picked up a roll and blew on its innards, “ _just_  gave her the music? And she auditioned how long after that?”

"Thirty minutes, tops. I couldn’t bear to wait and hear how it went."

"They don’t pay Jonesy enough for that mess." Finally, Kurt ate his roll and moaned at the processed, fatty, perfectly awful-for-him flavor. "Oh god, these shouldn’t be this good."

"But they are, Kiki. They so fucking  _are._ " Blaine picked up another half and clinked it against the piece in Kurt’s hand. "To midnight snacks on the down low."

"To feeling like fifteen piles of shit in the morning. And fucking hell. I have  _Reveille_ tomorrow.”

"You’ll kill it. Fueled by pizza rolls. Also, you definitely got the solo. I was blown away."

"No. What? No. She’ll give it to you, I’m sure."

"Why? Your sound is so rich and full and perfect for that song. You make it sound so effortless. How do you  _do_  that anyway?”

"Breath support? Your mouthpiece. These amazing lips." Blaine sputters and Kurt scolds, swiping down his blanket for any stray—spray. "If you got pizza spit on my bed, Maynard, you’re getting laps. Before Reveille."

"I didn’t get pizza spit—you do, by the way. Have, you know. Nice. Lips." Blaine picks at crumbs on the plate. "For playing. I mean."

Kurt doesn’t dare look at Blaine. Surely he isn’t flirting and—no. Blaine is not flirting. Even though it feels like flirting. It feels really good. Warm. Like the place where their knees are touching as they sit on Kurt’s mattress.

"Look, I’m—I’m sorry. I sometimes talk before I think and—"

This might possibly end up being the longest four nights of Kurt’s life, if night one is any indication.

"I like the 10C – I didn’t mean to keep it this long."

"It’s fine. Keep it until you get one for yourself."

"I did talk to Dad about that. You sure it’s okay to keep it?"

"I’m liking the 7, so yeah."

Kurt’s phone lights up and graciously breaks the tension in the room.

Santana [08-07-11 11:30pm]: When’s the DSMN audition?

Kurt [08-07-11 11:31pm]: Tuesday. You have plenty of time. And you’re 3.5 hours early for texting.

Santana [08-07-11 11:31pm]: Shut up. I can’t do this.

Kurt [08-07-11 11:32pm]: Since when does Santana Lopez start a sentence with I Can’t?

Santana [08-07-11 11:33pm]: Since 11:30 on Aug. 7, 2011

Kurt motions for Blaine to peek over, sharing the conversation. “Wanna help?”

Blaine skims and smiles. “She would sound amazing with Mike on that duet.”

"I know. And we know Mike will get the mellophone part – he’s the only one qualified this year."

"Tell me when and where. We’ll get her ready."

Kurt [08-07-11 11:34pm]: Morning break. We’re working on it and Maynard’s going to help too. You’re doing this.

Santana [08-07-11 11:34pm]: I hate you.

Kurt [08-07-11 11:35pm]: I love you too. G’night.

Kurt plugs his phone back in and tosses it to the foot of his bed, blinking when he sees Blaine staring at him like a curious puppy. “What?”

"You really are a nice guy, aren’t you?"

"I have my moments. Of which there will be few if we don’t get to sleep."

"Right. Bed. Going."

They settle in for a second time, sighing when the sound of the dripping faucet becomes the focus of the silence yet again. After a few flips and flops and huffs and turns, Blaine does what he seems to do best— dissipates the tension. That is, if he isn’t the one who originally created it.

"Stones or Beatles?"

"What?"

"Stones or Beatles. Come on – I used to do this with my brother when we couldn’t sleep during camping trips."

"Fine. Who needs sleep? Beatles."

"Boo. Stones, man. Stones! Start Me Up and Brown Sugar and Sympathy for the Devil. DUDE."

"Is that that stupid woowoo song?"

"Woowoo—what are you even talking about?"

There is a rap on the door and they both jump and swear. “Gentlemen. Lights out was forty minutes ago. Shut it down!”

They stifle giggles and Kurt turns to face Blaine, hoping his whispered tones will still be heard. “The woowoo song. It plays in my dad’s shop all the damned time. Seven solid minutes of Mick Jagger singing woowoo!!!” His voice cracks in the attempt to be both quiet and high-pitched and they both laugh, silencing each other before Kurt finally finds his composure. “Oh my god it is the most annoy—Beatles. End of discussion. They don’t woowoo. Wicked or Newsies?”

"Wicked. And I think you’re completely insane."

"Possibly, but for the Wicked answer, you can live."

"You know, though – Newsies is pretty fuck—"

"Go to sleep, Maynard."

"Woowoo!"

Kurt decides he can live without one of his pillows, sailing it across the room again to a very satisfying, “Oof!”


	7. Chapter Six

_Mike [08-08-11 3:10am]: I hope you and Kurt are happy._

_Blaine [08-08-11 3:14am]: Actually, I was sleeping, as is he. What?_

_Mike [08-08-11 3:15am]: We could smell your damned pizza rolls. We're still starving._

_Blaine [08-08-11 3:16am]: Uh. Connected rooms? You could have come over._

_Mike [08-08-11 3:17am]: Uh. Connected rooms? You could have invited us._

_Blaine [08-08-11 3:18am]: We were having enough trouble keeping quiet just the two of us. Is this really a band thing? This 3 am crap b/c dude. We have to get up for Reveille._

_Mike [08-08-11 3:20am]: It really is. And you know I'm kidding, right?_

_Blaine [08-08-11 3:21am]: Yes. I'm sleeping now._

_Mike [08-08-11 3:22am]: You type very well in your sleep._

**~~~**~~~**

Blaine yawns and stumbles toward the spot they've selected to meet Santana to get her ready for the audition Tuesday. He ignored Kurt's warning to avoid the eggs for breakfast, so his entire meal consisted of 2 wedges of unripe cantaloupe, a soggy half slice of toast and a glass of orange juice. The eggs, as warned, were inedible.

Morning rehearsal lasted 3 hours and after a quick glance at his phone, he finds that the temperature is already 98 degrees. Kurt and Santana arrive just as he starts contemplating dumping his entire gallon thermos of ice water over his head. Somehow,  _they_  look bright and chipper and perfect. "I hate you both."

"You ate the eggs, didn't you?" Kurt plops himself down on the grass and blows through his horn to clean out the accumulated spit.

"One bite. Even though you warned me, I counted on them for protein. Now I'm dying."

"You know, the band moms have granola in the first aid tent."

"I'm not used to this…big of a production. We only had one band mom whose sole purpose was to make sure you pooped every day."

"And have you?"

Blaine's flashes a worried look up to Santana. "First thing every morning, ma'am. She scared it out of me for life." At Kurt's raised eyebrow, he continues, "The woman carted around a fucking jar of Metamucil. If you complained of a stomach ache even once, she'd mix up her magic concoction and make you drink it."

"Oh god. So, does it work?"

"It made me puke. For future reference, if you ever do need to drink it? Guzzle it. It gels up and—" Blaine shivers and joins Kurt on the ground. "Can we just get started? I'm grossing myself out."

"Yeah, you're grossing everyone out." Santana looks at her phone and sighs. "So someone tell me what we're doing here. I could be snogging right now."

Kurt gently kicks at her ankle. "We're getting you ready to set the world on fire."

"With an eight bar solo. Got it." She sits across from them, cleaning out the spit from her horn and flipping her folder to the proper song. "If we're all aware we're wasting our time, we're good."

"No. Bad attitude." Kurt stands. "Come on. Up, Snix. This isn't sectionals. You too, Maynard." He reaches out a hand to each of them and Blaine's too busy giggling to grab for it. "What?"

"You have a hunk of bark on your ass." Kurt spins around trying to find whatever is attached to his shorts and Blaine cackles at him. "Wait. Wait. Stop. You look like a dog chasing his own tail. Come here." He hikes up and flicks the chunk of wood off Kurt's shorts and grins.

"We're going to skip the part where you were looking at my ass, yes?"

"Yes."  _If we must._ "How are we going to do this?"

"I can just leave so you two can play with each other. Or, maybe I could watch."

Kurt rolls his eyes and checks his ass once more, shooting a very ineffective glare to Blaine who is still staring. "Start the damned solo, Snixy. Lemme see where you're at with it."

And she starts and it sounds fine, but not  _excellent_. Her tone is airy – as if there is cheesecloth over the bell of her horn. And more so, she's hesitant. It doesn't go with the Santana that Blaine has come to know these past few weeks. He shoots a curious glance at Kurt. "Can I ask a question?"

"Hit me."

"You're confident. It oozes from you, but when you play—it's like you're hiding behind something."

Blaine's not sure if the look she's giving him means he's going to get decked or just drowned in tonight's chicken fights, but when it softens and she smiles, it's with an air of respect. Even better, Kurt seems equally impressed.

"Maynard. You have more balls than I do – I've been wanting to ask her that for years."

Santana cocks her head to the side and smiles at Blaine again before narrowing her gaze on Kurt. "You know, Kiki – you're not the only one who's been hiding behind someone's shadow for years."

"Wh—Snix? You're not in my shad—we're friends."

"I am in your shadow. And most of the time, I'm really okay with it. I kick ass all over the rest of this school while you're busy climbing out of dumpsters, but in band? It was you. And then you and Doc. And now, it's you two." She blows air into her horn and looks up at them. "What? Kurt, you look like you're going to toss breakfast."

"Santana, I had no idea."

Kurt does look queasy and Blaine feels like a 3rd leg and would really like to just forget he'd ever asked anything.

"Oh my god. Stop." She slugs Kurt's arm. "Stop with the fucking sad faces. It's fine." Kurt still looks worried, so she huffs and kisses his cheek. And then she kisses Blaine's. He can't help but smile. "That's why I just never put much effort into it. This is your show and I'm more than okay being your doo-wop girl."

Kurt's still sort of speechless, so Blaine decides to jump in and get the ball rolling. "Well, that ends here. Tomorrow morning, you're going to go in and nail this audition. No more shadows and no more doo-wop."

"So you say." Santana flips her valves on her horn and blows air through it, warming up her mouthpiece again. "What's first?"

"Gimme your horn." Kurt takes it and puts it on the ground, arranging all three instruments into a 3-petaled daisy.

"You always do an instrument line-up?"

"It's tradition, Maynard. Do not mock tradition." Kurt stands and rolls his shoulders, smiling when both Santana and Blaine mindlessly follow his lead. "Sheep. I love when my people are sheep."

" _Your_  people? You going to start seeing god in a bush too?"

Kurt ignores her and goes behind her to rub at her shoulders and give her direction. "Stand up straight. Shoulders back. Girls out."

Santana smirks at Blaine who instantly blushes. "In the clothes, Snix. Just you know…lift. Lift them." He stands straight, full-chested and trying very hard to be professional and not look at her boobs. He fails.

"Aw, Maynard. Look at you. You're so cute when you're blushy and your Kinsey scale slips a notch or too." She wiggles her chest and reaches out to pinch his cheek. "You've never touched a girl's boobs before, have you?"

"What if I told you I was nursed until I was nine?"

"Ew!! You were not nursed until you were—that's vile."

"No, I was not. Now stop pinching my cheeks like I'm some sort of a child and stand up right." He winks at Kurt over Santana's shoulder and puts his hand on her stomach. "Okay. Take a deep breath. Fill up your lungs and push my hand out."

"But my lungs are in my chest and I am not giving you your first feel."

Kurt moves from trying to get her shoulders back properly to stand in front of her again and rolls his eyes. "This is why I tell her to take lessons. She's impossible."

"I'm also right here."

" _And_  you're impossible."

"Your lungs  _are_  in your chest. Your diaphragm is a horizontal muscle between your lungs and your belly. You need to be breathing deep enough that your lungs fill, your diaphragm flattens, pushing out your stomach. You can't do that if you're slouching or taking shallow breaths."

"I'm calling you Dr. Maynard from now on." Santana smiles at both boys, standing up straight, rounding back her shoulders and takes in a nice deep breath.

"Now, let it out on a slow eight-count – like releasing air from a tire. Steady, even stream."

She does it perfectly and sticks her tongue out. "I've got this."

"Do it again." Blaine looks to Kurt and starts to ask a question, but stops himself, not wanting to be ragging on his new band, but it has to be asked. "Didn't you guys learn basic breath support and stuff in middle school?"

Kurt rolls his finger, telling Santana to keep going. "No. Mr. Payne is a nice enough guy, but basically incompetent. Nate? Famous wood blower? Showed up our freshman year holding his clarinet wrong." He bends to collect Santana's mouthpiece. "Right hand on top, left hand on bottom. I don’t know how the idiot got to all the keys he needed."

"Oh. God. Even  _I_  know—"

"Exactly. So, Jonesy does the best she can and encourages lessons, but," he hands Santana her mouthpiece and pokes her, " _some_  people won't bother."

"I'm busy. And poor. And really, I'm already good enough to manage until graduation." She looks at the mouthpiece like she's never seen one before. "Am I honking through this thing now?"

"Yep. Deep breath and buzz through it – the sound should be even."

Blaine bends to get his and Kurt's pieces. "We can join you so it's not so awkward."

"No. Lemme hear myself so I know what I'm doing. How come I've never done this before?"

"From the sounds of things, because Mr. Payne didn't take the time."

She stands straight and takes in a good, full breath. The honky-buzzy sound is wobbly and unsteady. "Am I still not getting in enough air? I sound like a wounded goose."

"Breathe deep. From your—" Kurt sighs, looking apologetically at Blaine before blurting it out. "Breathe from your cootch."

"From my cootch."

"Figuratively. Just—" Kurt huffs again and Blaine smirks. "Just imagine pulling air in from that low, okay?"

Blaine turns to Kurt, a grin tugging at his lips. "So, do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Pull air. From—" He points because. Because his brain will short circuit otherwise. He was fine considering Santana's crotch, but Kurt's would just— _he's talking. Stop thinking._

"… teacher's favorite phrase when my breathing is shallow is  _from your balls, Hummel_ , so yeah? You don't?"

Santana buzzes into her mouthpiece again. The improvement is minimal.

"I—" He closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath. "Hunh. Yeah. I suppose I do."

"My gaybies have lost their minds. Next thing I know you're going to be asking me to breathe through my eyelids."

"That's for baseball; not music." Blaine takes Kurt's position behind Santana, rolling her shoulders back, whispering into her ear. "Behave, or I'll start telling you abstinence helps win competitions."

"Like hell you will." Santana closes her eyes, taking in a slow deep breath. A grin curls on her lips and she peeks one eye open as Blaine comes back around to join Kurt and quickly looks away. "And get your mind out of my va-jay-jay."

"My mind is not on your vagin—"

"Oh! Kay. Moving on." Kurt hands Santana her horn, collecting the other two as well. "I'm sick of the dying goose. And vaginas. Lemme hear  _sound_. Deep breath – from your cootch if it helps – nice eight-count third-space C."

She takes in a good breath, low and deep, filling up her lungs perfectly. Blaine can't wait to hear the sound and then—

"Wait. C'mere, Maynard." He points at her mouth. "Snix, holy shit. How long have you been doing that?"

"Doing what? I just took a breath."

"No, but you—do it again."

She takes a proper intake of air and then Blaine sees it. "Do you always open your mouth to take in air? Pull the mouthpiece away?"

"Yes? No. I don't…this is just—I've been doing it this way since 5th grade." She puts the horn down and throws a hand on her hip. "What? Are you telling me I've been breathing wrong for seven years?"

"Yeah, we sort of are. Put your horn back up." Blaine rolls his shoulders. "Shoulders back, Snix. Come on. You know this shit."

"Fine."

"Now when you inhale, take in air from the outside corners of your mouth. Or your nose." Kurt lifts his horn to demonstrate. "Just keep your lips in the damned mouthpiece."

"I don't know what I'm doing."

"Place your lips in the mouthpiece first like you're going to play – lips in place. Good." Kurt demonstrates while Blaine continues. "Now, keep your embouchure set…good…and take a deep diaphragmatic breath from outside the mouthpiece.  _Now_ play that C5."

She does and doesn't even make it eight counts before she stops and stares at them both. "Holy shit. That was clear as a bell." She lifts her horn and does it again, this time starting a few bars of the solo and stopping to laugh and try again. "What the  _hell?_ "

Kurt shakes his head, amazed at the simple solution that should have been solved  _years_  ago. "You haven't been getting a good seal inside your mouthpiece.  _That's_  why you're airy."

Blaine bends over and picks up Santana's flip folder, sliding the lyre into her horn. "Let's hear the solo."

"Yeah, but now I feel like I don't know what the hell I'm doing. Like, I have to start thinking about everything all over again."

"It'll take time, but you'll get it."

"Play with me, Kiki?"

Blaine gives them a count and grins as they begin. Their blend is perfect, years of playing together, of knowing when to give and take and rise and fall working without any effort. Their friendship shows in the music.

If he's honest with himself, he never really experienced that at Wapak, standing alone in the spotlight, no one quite understanding the high that music can bring. Consequently, no one to share it with. No wonder this band gets superior ratings and wins so many grand championships.

No wonder they didn't trust – or even  _want_  – an outsider coming in literally  _tooting his own horn_.

They finish the short solo and Santana is flapping her hand and trumpet in excitement. "We're fucking amazing. Oh my god. Play with us this time, Maynard. I wanna do it again."

"Can I join in?" It's Mike, eyes bright, horn hanging loosely in his hands at his side. "Snix, you sounded amazing."

"I—thank you. Think you can handle this duet with me?"

"We'll be awesome."

Kurt bumps Blaine's shoulder and smiles – a quiet  _congratulations_  between them and Blaine counts off the new duet. Their sound is outstanding. Santana's airiness peeks in once, but she catches it and on her next intake of breath, she's back on track. The blend is perfect, Mike's mellophone counter melody soars above her melody as a perfect musical conversation.

Blaine lifts a hand to high five Kurt. "Damn, guys. That's going to be gorgeous."

Santana pulls the music out of her lyre with flair and tosses it to the ground, ready. Fixed. Determined. It's beautiful. "Okay, let's run through it one more time." She smiles at Kurt and Blaine – soft and sweet. "You two are my heroes."

**~~~**~~~**

The pool party is underway, held in the student activities center where sound bounces all over the three-story-high walls and because of the noise and the awful humidity parents don't stick around long. Half-clothed, wet, unsupervised teenagers. Really, what could be better?

For the unsupervised teenagers.

And now, while the morning had been all about building Santana up, it is time to take ol' Snixy down. Chicken fights are underway and Blaine has been too busy screwing around with Mike to get in on the early action. When Mike dips under water to grab up Tina for the next round, Blaine starts hunting for a partner.

His eyes zone in on one pale, lithe, lovely creature stretched out on a chaise like a prince of the sea. His hair is wet from an earlier dunk and he looks like he could be napping, although how, Blaine isn't sure.

He pulls himself up and out of the water, shaking out his curls and padding over to Kurt's chaise, close enough that the hem of his trunks drip water onto Kurt's thighs.

Without opening his eyes, Kurt speaks. "Snix, get your drippy tits away from me."

Blaine bites back a laugh and straddles the chaise, grabbing the armrests to lean in close, lowering his voice to its deepest bass as he keeps dripping water all over Kurt's trunks and abdomen. "I'm sorry. I seemed to have left my tits at home."

Kurt jumps and flails, almost knocking Blaine on his ass, recovering by grabbing an unsuspecting freshman flute player. Clarinet player. A girl he doesn't know.

"Oh my god, you  _son_  of a  _bitch!_ " But, Kurt is laughing and throwing his towel at Blaine, grabbing it back to dry himself from where Blaine dripped all over him. "What in the  _hell_ —"

Blaine glances into the pool just as Santana and Brittany take down Mike and Tina. "Wanna top?"

Kurt stops all motion and matches Blaine’s ornery grin. "Isn't this a little soon in our relationship?"

"Band handbook says 10 days wait period, so I think we're good." Blaine reaches out his hand to tug Kurt toward the pool. "Even if you won't chicken fight with me, just come play. No one lays out at an indoor pool." Kurt hesitates and Blaine pouts. He's not particularly proud of it, but he does. "Look, either get in yourself or I'm pushing you in."

Before Blaine can reconsider that option, Kurt sneaks by him and jumps in, splashing water out onto Blaine's legs. "Well come on then! What are you waiting for?"

Blaine falls into the pool next to him and when he resurfaces, he spins to find Kurt already sitting up on the edge. "No. _Get in_  does not mean jump in and get back out. At least give me one round of chicken."

"We'll lose."

"I don't play to win. I play to have fun."

"You also lie."

"Come on…" Blaine makes his way to Kurt's hilariously farmer-tanned legs and grabs at his calves.

"Do not pull me in. I'll get in myself."

With his hands tossed up in submission, Blaine pushes backward as Kurt slides in, stumbling when Santana comes out of nowhere and jumps on his back. "You're in, you're in! What'd he do? Promise a post-lights-out blow job?"

"Yes. That's—get  _off_  of me! That's the only thing I respond to. I'm still not playing chicken."

"Yes, you are. With the right partner—"

"That's exactly what I've been telling him."

"Listen to Maynard, Kiki. The boy knows his—"

Blaine has had enough chatting and figures a little extra nudging might be necessary. So, he sinks underwater and moves behind Kurt who is fortunately semi-squatted to keep his shoulders warm in the water. With one fluid motion, he's between his legs and pushing to stand. Hopefully this will not earn him 10 laps in the morning.

It might be worth it anyway.

When he resurfaces all he can hear is the echoed squeal from Kurt and victorious cheer of his friends. "Maynard, put me  _down!_ "

Kurt's popping him on the top of his head, but not really making any effort to get off. It'd be easy enough to do, but he's not and Blaine knows it. He looks up as much as he can and grins, holding onto Kurt's thighs to balance them both. "How strong are your thighs?"

"Strong enough to break your fucking neck if this goes poorly."

"Ooh, that will probably get me out of rehearsal tomorrow. Okay, who are we up against?" He walks them to the center of the pool where Quinn and Sugar await.

"Alright, Q! Let's have a kiki! Take 'em down!"

From the sidelines, a whistle blows and all attention goes to Artie who sits on the side with his hands in the air. "This begins the official Chicken Championship of Band Camp 2011. I blow the whistle and start the clock. Teams get three minutes to topple their competition. If there is no clear winner, both teams move onto the next round. Is everybody ready?"

Blaine looks up and pinches at Kurt's thigh. "So, this is  _serious_  then?"

"I tried to tell you – it won't last, I promise. We're going down."

"Not to these two, we're not. Let's go."

Artie blows the whistle again and Quinn charges with Sugar firmly on her shoulders before Blaine can even register what's happening. He plants himself and laughs while Sugar and Kurt go  _at_  it, maneuvering them around to attack or retreat, hanging onto Kurt's thighs as if his life depended on it.

"Go left, Maynard. Go left!" He does and with a squeal and a splash, the girls go down, all their grace and beauty shown in color guard forgotten in defeat.

And it's all the fire Kurt needs because he's popping Blaine on the head again, "Let me down for a second. I'm cold."

So he bends and lets go of Kurt's legs letting him swim off for a moment. He comes around and stands with a shake of his head, turning his back to Blaine. "Okay, load up again – who's next?"

"So, you only like it if you win?"

Kurt looks back and smiles, and Blaine feels like he just discovered the secret that makes Kurt tick. "What's the point if you don't win?"

Blaine grins and they start taking pairs down. Rachel and Mercedes are beat with ease, Andrew and Nate put up a bit more of a struggle to Blaine's surprise, but after a brilliant fake out on Kurt's part, they go down with a nerdy cry. Just when victory begins to feel sweet, Blaine pops up between Kurt's legs to find Finn and Puck waiting their turn.

_Oh shit._

"I'll go easy on you, little brother."

"Don't patronize me." Kurt bops Blaine on the head, "Switch with me. I'm faster than Finn."

"And I’m not?"

"Oh, put the bravado away. Just trust me." So Blaine lets Kurt lift him up over the surface of the water where he's face to face with Puck. Who's about three times his size. "Brains over brawn, Maynard. We've got this." Kurt grabs Blaine's thighs and looks over to Artie. "Let's start this one, Disco!"

The fight ends up being easier than the one with Nate and Andrew, Finn's slow response making an easy game of it. Mike and Tina are next and that's a battle Blaine doesn't want to repeat, Kurt and Tina battling it out like two predatory cats. But, Kurt's strength gets the better of her and they go down. Finally, they're facing Brittany and Santana.

Brittany is probably the strongest girl Blaine's ever seen and Santana has quick smarts and a report with Kurt that could make this last all night.

And it lasts. And lasts. And since they're the last two teams, they simply stop and regroup, swimming around to loosen their limbs before Artie calls for the next 3 minute run when it's back on again. But finally, finally, after one quick slip on Blaine's part and one smart move on Santana's, Kurt and Blaine are falling backwards into the water, ending their fantastic reign.

When they resurface, Kurt's laughing and Blaine's laughing and Santana's jogging laps around the pool crowning herself victor. And then Mike blocks her and reminds her that those who lost on the bottom, can challenge again. "Me and Blaine. You and Nini. Final games. You in?"

"I'm so fucking in. Give me the hobbit on top."

And so it goes that Blaine faces off with Santana while Kurt and a good portion of the band cheer from the sides. It's vicious. It's passionate. It's exhausting,  _my god she never gives up!_ But in the end, the boys outsmart the girls and with one final twist, Santana falls with a splash.

In four years of band camp, no one has ever beaten Santana Lopez. And, for a silly pool game, Blaine feels pretty damned awesome to be the first one.

Jonesy comes through the door at the height of the celebration, announcing it's time to go. "There's a storm coming. Everyone out and get up to your rooms. Lights out in ninety minutes."

Blaine's head is buried under his towel and he feels a tap on his shoulder. It's Santana and a smile. She plants her hands on his cheeks and leans in for a quick kiss. "You can stay. You're good for him."

"Kiki?"

"Yeah. Don't blow it."


	8. Chapter Seven

As Jonesy had warned, a good old-fashioned summer storm had been brewing during the entirety of the pool party. By the time she calls it a night, the visual portion of the storm is in full swing, lighting the sky as everyone darts from the rec center to their dorms, dodging the steady, but still timid rainfall. Wet bodies shiver in the air conditioning, dripping water all over the floors as they wait for the two very slow and very small elevators to carry them to the safety of their rooms.

Kurt is towel drying his hair when Blaine comes in, unusually quiet, but completely drenched. Kurt is refreshed by it all— the pool party, the summer rain, the adrenaline rush, but Blaine looks shaken.

"Is it your pick tonight or mine?"

"I don’t care. I probably won't pay any attention anyway."

Kurt peeks out from under his towel and watches. In the first days at band camp, Kurt has learned that Blaine is as obsessively tidy as he is. His dirty clothes bag is the only sign of "tossing" in the room. Every article of unworn clothing is perfectly folded in drawers. Bottles of hair care and skin care products are aligned in order of use. Their snacks are neatly stacked inside of a closed cabinet and their mini-fridge is as well-organized as that of a professional kitchen. So, Blaine waiting for use of the bathroom by re-organizing and straightening his drill book after a day's worth of abuse isn't necessarily peculiar.

And yet his demeanor, the way his shoulders tense, the way he avoids eye contact and paces as he works, all gives Kurt pause.

"You okay?"

"Y—yeah. I just—" He cups himself and blushes. "You almost done?"

"Oh. Shit, yeah. Sorry. I'll just—change. Out here." Kurt grabs his underwear and steps out of the bathroom. "Sam and Mike were doing the knights-on-white-horses thing letting girls come up first, so they'll be awhile."

"What time's lights out?"

"Midnight. We have about an hour. Might be able to finish _Avenue Q_."

And they almost do, but Blaine is distracted and fidgety and Kurt is grateful—for many reasons, actually – that they don't share top to bottom bunks because he fears Blaine is going to fidget himself right out of bed once it's time for lights out. Which it now is.

The hallway lights flicker to signal the time and the four boys scurry into the bathroom to brush their teeth, take one final leak and in Kurt's case, add one more dab of cream to a pimple that is insistent on making an appearance.  _Fucking Ohio humidity._

They offer their sarcastic _goodnight, sweetie_ blessings to Sam and Mike and settle into their bunks. Just as the last shuffle is stilled, the storm—that hasn't been amounting to much of anything—finds its footing and bares down on Hocking College.

Sleep is not an option. Again. The window is at the foot of both of their bunks, so turning to roll away from the light show is impossible. Left side, right side, head under the pillow, flopping back to just submit to the onslaught, nothing, nothing, nothing works.

And Blaine doesn't seem to be faring any better. In fact, after about fifteen minutes, he's pacing the floor which frankly isn't helping Kurt's lot at all.

"Blaine."

"I know. I'm sorry."

Blaine crawls back in bed and begins the process all over again only to get up in another five minutes.

"Maynard!"

Blaine goes into the bathroom and after a while Kurt begins to wonder if he drowned because he's in there for longer than necessary. The storm continues to roll through the hills of south eastern Ohio. Finally the bathroom light goes off and Blaine comes back, sighing heavily as he crawls back into bed.

"Are you okay?"

"I'll be fine."

"You just seem—"

"I said I'll be fine, Kurt."

Kurt rolls toward the wall. Whatever is up Blaine's ass is Blaine's business, even though not two hours prior he was at the peak of celebration of the monumental chicken fight championship. But, Kurt is now in the business of riding out this storm and getting some sleep. A 6:30am call arrives sooner than he cares to imagine.

But, Blaine's tossing and turning and huffing and puffing are more distracting than the damned storm and his patience is wearing thin. Last night was bad enough, and Blaine's out of bed yet again and they're both exhausted and—

"Oh my god, what the hell is the matter with you!?"

"I'M TERRIFIED OF THUNDERSTORMS OKAY? OKAY? YOU HAPPY NOW?" Blaine yanks the chair out from the desk and plops in it. "Fuck."

And the silence that follows Blaine's outburst is louder than the thunder, louder than their racing heartbeats, louder than any fortissimo the band could imagine producing.

Blaine gets up and crawls back in bed, covering his face with his pillow and then tosses it to his feet. "I'm sorry. I'm embarrassed. I feel like a five-year-old."

"Because you're afraid?"

"Well, yeah. It's stupid. It's a thunderstorm. You're supposed to outgrow crap like this, but apparently I missed that line during puberty."

"Blaine, everybody's afraid of something."

Kurt could see Blaine sit up, the lightning a strobe of flashes in the room, thunder getting louder and louder, no sign of easing at all. "You're not going to tell anyone, are you?"

"No. Although, Mike and Sam might have heard you."

"Shit." He flops back again and sighs. "I'm so fucking tired. We slept like shit last night. I'm freaking out. I'm keeping you up and—"

"What do you do at home?"

"What do I do at h—what?"

"During thunderstorms. What do you do to calm down?"

"I turn my lights on and watch the weather online."

"And we can't do either of those things; hall moms will birth kittens."

"And goats. That's why I'm losing my mind."

Blaine rustles in the bed again, his breath hitching with every flash, every crash, every wash of rain that splashes against their fifth story window.

"What do you do if the power's out?"

"I slowly lose my mind."

Kurt sits up and stretches, running ideas through his head until he lands on one that—there is no way. Blaine will freak even more and he's not sure where their friendship— is this a friendship?— stands, but he does feel for him. Being this frightened is awful and being embarrassed about being this frightened has to be worse.

It is worse. He knows firsthand.

"Maynard, do you trust me?"

"I think we established that in the pool tonight."

"Yeah. I really—I had a great time."

"Me too." Thunder continues to rumble around them, vibrating their beds and Blaine takes in enough air on one gasp to deplete the entire room of its oxygen. "Jesus."

"Okay, I have an idea but—I mean this. You have to trust me until it makes sense, okay?"

Blaine rolls onto his back, hissing when another clap of thunder cracks the sky, his voice shaky even in his attempts to lighten the mood. "Well with that introduction, can I change my answer?"

"You can. But then you're still going to be scared and this storm doesn't sound like it's going anywhere anytime soon." They stare at each other's silhouettes in the dark, and then Kurt adds, "My mom used to do this with me when I was scared at night— maybe it'll work for you."

"Okay, hit me. I'm tired of feeling like I'm going to jump out of my skin."

Kurt grabs Blaine's pillow from the foot of his bed and tosses it, as well as his own near Blaine's chest. "Roll toward the wall and curl around a pillow. And don't freak out." He takes one good cleansing breath before continuing. "I'm climbing in with you."

Blaine rolled and then stopped halfway around. "Wha—"

"Roll over, Maynard. This is business, not pleasure. I'm tired too."

"Right. Rolling." So, he does and Kurt climbs behind him into the opened sleeping bag, waiting for Blaine to get settled.

"Okay, I'm going to hold onto the edge of the pillow like my trumpet. Put your hand on mine, like my fingers are the valves." He slips his arm around Blaine's middle and scoots closer to reach the far edge of the bunched up pillow.

Blaine rests the full of his arm on Kurt's and finds his hand, their fingers slipping and intertwining before Blaine's rests his first three fingers on Kurt's as if "playing" his hand.

And then the loudest clap of thunder shakes the room, lightning filling it with golden light, rain pelting the panes of glass with a fury that is beginning to sound more like hail. That one even scared Kurt.

"Blaine. You're trembling." Kurt's voice is but a breath and he finds himself inching even closer to hold Blaine still.

"I know." Blaine's body shakes almost as if proving the point. "Just keep going…"

"Okay. What songs do you still need to memorize? We'll play through them."

"Oh. That's—okay, um… _The Fight Song. Alma Mater_. I know the show."

"Good. _Fight Song_. Sing our parts like we do with drill, okay?"

"Yes." And they begin, singing – or more accurately _dooting_ – _The Fight Song_ , Blaine pressing down Kurt's fingers as valves on his horn, getting the fingering of the piece memorized to muscle memory. He fumbles here or there and they giggle, starting back at an easy-to-begin spot and go again.

The storm rages around them, rain turning to hail by the second run-through. But Blaine isn't trembling anymore. Or pacing. Or, from what Kurt gathers, frightened. " _Alma Mater_?"

"Yes, please."

Kurt sings the words this time and Blaine fumbles more often than before, so Kurt stops. "You okay, or just unfamiliar?"

"I'm—I'm okay. You just have a beautiful voice."

Kurt pulls back a little and sucks in a breath, almost forgetting where he is and what he is doing, lost in the rhythm and familiarity of the songs. "Th—thank you. Um." Blaine's hair smells of chlorine, his pillow of his shampoo. This needs to either end or they need to start a new song. "Are you okay now?" He pulls his arm back as if to go, but Blaine grabs at him.

"No. Another. Please?"

" _Gimme Some Lovin'_?"

"What?"

"The stand tune, Maynard."

"Oh. Y—yes. Jesus." Kurt chuckles and begins song – one of many the band will play during football games from the stands. He sings the familiar bass line – as _bass_ as he can – and Blaine bites back a giggle because it really is entirely too adorable, and then finally, "How many bars of this?"

"Eleven-ba-da-da-boom. Let's-make-that-the-last-one-two-ready-go." And they're singing the lead trumpet part of the song, fingering the notes – Kurt with perfect precision, Blaine a little more wobbly – but in time, especially since this song is so repetitive – he has it down.

They keep going, back to the _Alma Mater_ , adding in more stand tunes, some Blaine doesn't know at all, but once Kurt gives him the key he can figure things out. And Kurt's amazed at the ear Blaine has. And the musical knowledge. And how warm and firm and amazing his body feels and before he knows it, the room is lighter and Kurt's entire body feels stiff and awkward. He looks up to where the clock is, only he doesn't see a clock because—

"Oh god…" He backs out of Blaine's bed and stumbles to his own, wiping his hands down his face, finally finding the clock from the proper perspective.

6:25am.

"What's wro—what time is it?" Blaine reaches back for Kurt but he isn't there, so he rolls over. "Where'd you go?"

"I'm right here, Maynard. And it's almost 6:30. Thank god Snix is doing _Reveille_ today. I totally forgot about it."

Blaine nods and sits up, catching Kurt's eyes for a brief moment, but suddenly the air is thick with discomfort and nerves and tension and oh-my-god-we-just-spent-the-night-in-the-same-bed. "Do you need—can I use the bathroom first?"

"Go on. I have to shower though, so go easy on the hot water."

"Like you have room to talk…"

Kurt glances up from wherever he was staring to avoid looking at Blaine only to see his ass bent over the drawer as he picks out clothes for the day. _Shit._ "Just hurry up, Maynard."

And he does, and Kurt does and somewhere in the midst of it all, _Reveille_ sounds and Sam and Mike sneak in to the bathroom as well, and they need to get moving downstairs for breakfast but not another word is spoken beyond _toothpaste, pass me the mousse,_ and _how did I lose a sock?_

After the chaos, they're sitting on their own beds tying shoes, avoiding speaking, the tension becoming virtually unbearable. "Thank you."

Kurt looks up and he can't read what Blaine's saying underneath the huge heap of _earnest_ , so he nods and moves to head to breakfast without saying anything at all.

"So, I was thinking… now you owe _me_ a secret."

Kurt stops at the door and his belly twists at how gorgeous this boy is. His skin is sun-kissed in the most delicious natural bronze, his eyes shine in the morning sun – now well-rested and bright. His muscles are well-defined yet not bulky and all Kurt wants to do is curl himself back around him and sleep again. Or. Not sleep.

But, he can't. He won't. They have a job to do and falling for the competition is not part of the job description. "I owe—why?"

"You have something to hold over my head now. It's only fair."

"You want a secret? Of mine?"

"Yes."

Kurt's daydreaming dies a little, the lack of trust apparent. And, he supposes, he can't blame Blaine. Minus these past few days, Kurt's never given him reason to. But, it pinches at him nonetheless. He opens the door to the hallway and offers a sad smile. "My secret? I never would have held that over your head."

**~~~**~~~**

Kurt is pretty successful in avoiding Blaine most of the morning and even moves Santana to sit between them during full rehearsals inside. He works at not being rude – he just makes it a point to appear busy. Distracted. Otherwise elsewhere.

At first, he can't define why he needs to avoid Blaine, but as the day progresses, his mind keeps drifting back to the morning. To the waking up and the awkward and the fact that Blaine still doesn't trust him. And that maybe it hurts a little.

But, come evening rehearsal, he can't avoid contact any further because things aren't going well. His whole section seems to have left their brains at dinner. He can't get Blaine's attention via eye contact – every time he tries, Blaine's eyes dart somewhere else. Charts they had down are falling apart, music they'd mastered is sounding like they're sight-reading and now Jonesy is calling to start _The Show Must Go On_. This could only go from bad to worse.

"Sideline your instruments, set 41, Kiki center stage for the solo. In fact – be my eyes down there since you're not moving. Feels like we're unraveling."

"That's because we are."

"Always the sunshine in my life, Kiki. Disco, get us started."

Taking a step back, Kurt has to admit that simply watching from center-of-the-field is interesting. To see how every cog of the wheel works together, to watch the other sections talk to each other just as the trumpets do, in small nods of the head, in glances, in quick counts, in muttered reminders of yard line hits, flanks and spins, section leaders keeping squad leaders keeping squads in line. After the blood, sweat and tears of it all, the team work needed to make it all look effortless is a thing to behold.

But, when they get to chart 48, the cogs start unseating and his focus zooms right to the trumpet section that is missing spins and simple slides while trying to remember chart hits. Blaine isn't talking to them either and with Kurt in his solo slot, that is his job. He bites his tongue for a few bars and then finally he can't remain silent any longer.

"MAYNARD!"

"WHAT!?"

"Lead—" He stops himself when Blaine's anger lands right between his eyes, quite possibly taking out an unsuspecting sax player in the process.

And it hurts.

Blaine's glare eases – maybe realizing he'd overreacted – and Kurt remembers the night before and how with each crack of thunder, Blaine trembled in his arms until he was distracted enough to still and sleep. He remembers that evening in Blaine's driveway before band camp when the secret of his family's pain weighed down his shoulders and dulled the typical brightness in his eyes.

As each memory unseals itself, Kurt slowly realizes Blaine isn't his competition. He is becoming his friend. A friend who he's just snapped at because maybe, just maybe, he's been an ass by avoiding him all day. "Jonesy? Can we—can the trumpets split off for a bit? Get this worked out?"

"Have at it, Kiki. Bring it back perfect."

"We can do that. Okay, trumpets – back field, home end zone. Set chart 44. Use the 20 as the 50 yard marker. Back hash is your sideline."

As they make their way back, he catches Blaine's gaze – less angry, more curious – and offers a simple smile. It seems to appease him, Blaine kicking into a jog to encourage the others to hustle to their new location. They follow willingly; he's a good leader – when he's not trying to be their buddy.

Which, as Kurt starts them, is clearly the problem. Blaine sees the mistakes, it's clear in his intake of breath to make a correction, but then his eyes soften when he meets the gaze of the offender. If he does make a correction, it's more of a suggestion than a direct statement.

"Okay, cut. Go get  your horns and run through fingerings and visuals for a minute. Maynard, c'mere."

Blaine dodges everyone as they head off to get their horns and lands in front of Kurt with a bead of sweat trailing down the side of his face. Kurt swallows back the urge to swipe it off, realizing Blaine's talking. "Sorry I snapped."

"We're all tired; it's okay." Blaine looks at him as if to say _that's not it and you know it_ , but Kurt continues. "You're being too nice."

"What? I have to be a dick to get them—"

"No, you don’t have to be a dick. That's my job. Which—" Kurt shakes his head, removing the amber glow of Blaine's eyes from messing up whatever it is he's trying to say. "Out here, they're not your friends."

"So, why'd you stop yourself from yelling at me?"

Blaine's direct hit sucks Kurt's ready answer straight out of him, leaving him momentarily speechless. At Blaine's cocky smirk, he finds it within himself to continue. "Because I don't have to be a dick either." Blaine nods, seemingly okay with that answer and lifts the hem of his shirt to his face to wipe away the sweat, which is really an unfair thing to do – as friends – in this close proximity of each other. "Can we just—combine the two?"

Blaine's shirt falls to cover his bare abdomen and Kurt swallows to find Blaine's smirk hasn't left his stupid face. "So, friends…with dicks?"

"Stop. Oh my god." Kurt laughs and Blaine laughs and this isn't going the way Kurt planned at all, but the tension is gone and he couldn't be more grateful. "Seriously. You're too charming, especially with the girls. On field? You can't do it. Breaks, outside of rehearsal, at parties, in school – go for it. Charm the hell out of them. Let them think that you're available for them, whatever turns you on, but out here?"

"Wait, back up. You think I'm leading the girls on—like they're into me or something?"

"Oh, honey…tell me you're not that naïve." Kurt blows at the curl of hair on his forehead _._ "Are—yes. They're into you. Crushes. It happens. Rachel's about to quit flute just to blow your horn. If you don't—" Kurt takes in Blaine's confused gaze and realizes that yes, he really is that naïve. "You're going to hurt one of them and if it's Rachel, you have a pack of people who will clobber you."

"I—I had no—I just thought everyone was really friendly."

"Oh Maynard. I mean, yes. We're a friendly group, but these girls – some of them are just starving for a nice boy to take home to mama and you're _so_ him." Blaine beams and Kurt rolls his eyes but has to smile because he is the most adorable boy to take home to mama – if he had a mama to take a boy home to. "My _point_ , you idiot, is that you're not leading them during rehearsal. You're asking if they might possibly want to do the right thing and given the option? No, they do not. Because if they don't, you might talk to them again."

"And with you, if they do the right thing, you'll leave them alone."

"Basically. Which, upon reflection is sort of sad, but that is not what we're talking about."

"I thought it was."

He's flirting again. Blaine is flirting and Kurt is getting even more overheated than the day dictates, and that is fucking overheated on its own and he really  wants to punch the smirk right off of Blaine's face. Kiss. Punch. Probably kiss, but a punch would make a more lasting impression.

Unless he kissed as well as Kurt has imagined and—

"Kiki! Are you guys ready over there? I just see a lot of screwing around."

"Shit. Yes! We're—" He looks at his section and practically begs – a very non-leadership way of motivating but he was distracted. "We're ready, right trumpets?"

"Ready, Kiki. Get up, lazy asses – let's show Jonesy how it's done." Santana smacks Kurt and Blaine's asses as she walks by, graciously saving the moment from utter humiliation.

Kurt bites back his own smirk and side-eyes Blaine as they join the group. "Just, hear what I'm trying to say. Don’t break my friends' hearts and stop being so fucking nice."

"Got it. Friends with dicks. I'm on it."

 


	9. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick announcement. I received word that something went haywire with Chapter Five. If you've started this after original posting, the read might have been strange. Hit the Chapter Index up there and make sure this fool thing makes sense. All chapters are there and in proper order now. 
> 
> IOW, your author is a bit daft.

Blaine and Kurt drag in from the useless, pointless, really-was-this-necessary bandcamp dance and flop on their beds face first, without grace, dignity, or even a little bit of finesse. "We could have been sleeping, Kiki. Sleeping. And instead—"

"We sat along the wall like the pimple-faced girls with bottle-bottom glasses."

"And no cute boys even asked us to dance. That blew."

"We _are_ the cute boys, Maynard." Kurt rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling, laughing at Blaine who's unsuccessfully trying to toe off his tennis shoes.

"Why didn't we just get up and dance?"

"Because we've been on our feet for 72 solid hours? Because dances suck. Because the pool was empty and we were protesting."

"Because—" Blaine groans, rolls onto his back, flails himself to sit and finally yanks his shoes off with his hands. "Because our shoes are glued to our feet with sweat and dried on grass and…" he brings his left shoe to his nose and jerks back with a grimace. "…teen spirit."

Kurt laughs and Blaine balls up his sock as if to throw it at him, but pulls back as Kurt's laugh stops on a dime and turns into his ever-familiar threatening glare. "Don’t you _even_ —"

"I wouldn't dream of it. And how dumb is it that I’m not even remotely tired?"

"It's the pinball syndrome."

"Excuse me?" Blaine's on his back again. The ceiling is really…dull.

"Pinball syndrome. Mom said I used to get it all the time when I was overly tired. I'd refuse to stop moving and would just bop around the house, bouncing off everything in my path, never really getting anywhere."

"I wonder if there's the 50,000 point basket anywhere in here?"

"In the hot shower. Of which I'm entirely too exhausted to strip down and climb into."

"But I don’t want to sleep either."

"Tomorrow is going to blow. Worse than that infernal dance."

"When's lights out?"

"Fifteen."

"Shit. Will we ever get a decent night's sleep?"

"Here? Are you kidding me? No. Maybe tomorrow – we'll be half dead."

They rest in silence for a few more moments, not even caring that the hall lights are going to flicker them into forced darkness and inactivity. "Did I see Rachel making out with both Finn and Puck?"

"I believe you did. And didn't she lean in to you during _Grenade_?"

"I'm trying to forget that, thank you very much. I finally told her I'm gay. She thinks I'm lying."

"She does not."

Blaine finally sits up and does the best Rachel Berry imitation this side of the Ohio River. "If you didn't want to dance with me, Blaine Anderson, you should have just _said_ as much! There's no reason to _lie!_ "

"Maybe we should start making out in front of her."

Blaine freezes. Kurt freezes. "I'll. Just. Go brush. First. And. Stuff. Maybe more pizza rolls?"

"Y—yeah. I'll get those started. So my mouth is full and I can't talk anymore."

Blaine steps into the bathroom and finds Mike standing at the sink, brushing his teeth. He's never been so happy to see the guy since they met. He slides the door closed behind him and leans back against it. "I’m not going to make it this week."

Mike spits and looks at Blaine through the reflection in the mirror. "Is everything okay? You look pale."

"Yeah. I'm—I'm good." He grabs at his toothbrush and loads it with toothpaste, shoving it into his mouth and pulling it back, dry and gross without water. "Yeah. I'm great."

Mike takes the toothbrush from Blaine's limp fingers and runs it under water before handing it back. "Sure. I'm next door if you need anything."

"I need a girl for a roommate is what I need." Mike's eyebrow shoots up and a knowing smile spreads across his face and Blaine thinks he might have to kick him in the nuts. "Stop. Just—no. Go to bed. You didn't hear me say a word."

"This entire conversation never happened. 'Night Maynard."

"Get out of here…I gotta piss."

**~~~**~~~**

They meet on Kurt's bed again and down pizza rolls in the dark. Kurt falls back onto his pillow in refusal to "do the dishes."

"I did them last time."

"And you can do them again. I'm already comfortable."

Blaine scoffs because Kurt doesn't look even remotely comfortable, cocked peculiarly against the wall with one hand thrown behind his head for a pillow. He tosses the paper plate back onto the desk and crawls up next to him, flopping on his back. "That was exhausting."

"You're so full of shit."

"No, remember? That was band camp last year. Mrs. Guth took care of that with her magic puke-inducing Metamucil cocktail."

"Mmmm. Yes. I remember now." Kurt hikes onto his side, leaning fully against the wall giving Blaine plenty of room. To sniff Kurt's pillow. Or. Whatever it is he's doing in Kurt's bed. In the dark. And not being asked to leave.

So he doesn't.

They are quiet for a while, listening to the hallway noises as everyone shuts down for the evening, their iPod softly playing various Broadway tunes interspersed with Queen's Greatest Hits and Ohio State University Marching Band music.

Blaine wants to ask if he should go to his own bed. But he doesn't want to risk an answer. He wants to ask why Kurt made such a grand effort at ignoring him all day. But he doesn't want to risk that answer either.

He wants to ask where he takes private lessons. But he doesn't want to talk shop. He wants to roll to his side to face Kurt, to let his eyes get used to the dark so he can see the outline of his eyelashes and the moment his cheeks lift and fill as he smiles. But if he moves, he is afraid Kurt will decide the bed is too small for two for a second night in a row, so he rests there, hoping Kurt will talk. Or snore lightly. Or lean over and break the tension with a kiss.

"I’m afraid of vampires."

"What?" That is not on his list of ideas at all.

"You wanted a secret. And bats. I'm afraid of vampires and bats."

"Vampires aren't real, Kurt."

"But the fear is." Kurt moves his hand to the fitted sheet between them and starts to draw swirls into the striped design. "What scares you about thunderstorms?"

"I…don’t know. I'm afraid of losing everything? I hate the sounds and…I guess when I was little – before I even have memory of it – I was standing at our back door watching a storm roll in. I had the screen door in my hand and a huge gust of wind came through. It yanked the door from my hand _and_ from its hinges. Blew it right into our neighbor's yard."

"Oh hell, that'd do it."

"It's the only concrete thing Mom and I can attach to it. Well, that and my dad's shitty reaction whenever I cowered. _Buck up. Be a man. It's just a_ storm, _son."_

Kurt's quiet for a minute and Blaine worries that maybe he agrees with his dad – that he should man up. It is just a storm after all. " _Be a man_. My favorite expression ever. Like there's one definition for a man – they all look and act and talk and think alike."

"Well, if being a man is anything like being like my dad, then I'd just as soon be a giraffe."

Kurt chuckles softly and Blaine takes that risk and rolls to face Kurt as he speaks. "You have some height issues to overcome first, Maynard."

"Short jokes. You must be getting tired – that's too easy."

"I guess I am."

They fall quiet again, humming along with “Popular” from _Wicked_ , hushing giggles when Blaine's voice cracks on the last note. As they settle, Blaine curls into the pillow, his body relaxing into the mattress. Maybe he's more tired than he originally thought, too.

"So, why are you afraid of vampires?"

"Oh. Probably a childhood thing like you." Kurt snuggles in too, and their bare feet brush and quickly yank back with whispered apologies.

"Should I go back to my—"

"No." They both stop breathing and finally Kurt speaks again. "I mean, unless you want—"

"I don’t. We can hear each other better this way."

"Yeah." Kurt's eases his foot to the center of the bed and as he continues his story, Blaine relaxes and just lets limbs fall where they may. It's nice. Just like Kurt's voice. "After my mom's funeral, I stayed with my aunt and uncle for a few days. My uncle was—he always thought I was a bit of a pansy – his word, not mine – and took great pleasure in trying to toughen me up. So, that particular visit he got all these horror movies to watch. And I liked some of them. I thought they were funny – even in elementary school I knew you should _not_ go in that cabin. Down to the basement. Into that super dilapidated house. And they always did. And then they died. Because they were stupid. Those I liked."

"I always loved the moron who called out _Is anybody there_?"

"Yes! Why don't you just put a target on your forehead?" Kurt rolls onto his stomach, hugging his pillow underneath his head, close enough that when he so much as chuckles, Blaine can feel his breath on his face. This is probably a really bad idea, but he can't bring himself to move. "But, the vampire movies freaked me out. And it's the stupid ones with capes and fake-assed teeth and goony laughs that I hate. The most ridiculous ones to be afraid of."

"So _Twilight_ …"

"Team Jacob. Or…team Taylor Lautner, if we're being particular."

"Can't argue that choice."

"So, my uncle played those dumb movies and then that night, the bastard came into my bedroom dressed like one. I had just fallen asleep and I wasn't at home and my mom was dead and—"

"Oh my god. That's an awful thing to do to a kid."

"Yeah. I wet the bed. I hate vampires."

"Vampires are stupid."

"Thunderstorms suck."

They're quiet for a few moments and Blaine keeps wanting to bring up how he'd felt all morning when Kurt ignored him after the storm. How he worried that maybe Kurt really did think it was stupid, or childish, or that maybe he'd regretted helping or staying with him like that all night. But when he takes in the full picture, the dark room, the way their bare feet have sort of, as if on their own, intertwined under the sheets, the soft way Kurt's voice fills the small space between them, he knows he doesn't need to worry about anything. Whatever was going on in the morning has certainly been tended to now. Because this moment? This moment is perfect.

"Thank you for helping me last night."

"Any time, Maynard. Maybe, if the weather is freaking you out in rehearsals—we should come up with a signal or something."

"What could you even do about it?"

"I don’t know. You'll just know I have your back."

"I could start screaming and running around in circles."

"That'd be perfect. Subtle. A thing just between the two of us."

Blaine chuckles and says a prayer of thanks that the room is dark because he is pretty sure he's visibly swooning. _The two of us_ – as if there is such a thing.

The silence is awkward again and Blaine finally decides, "Maybe if I just catch your eye. Look up. You'll know."

"Yeah. Just connect with me, okay? It's August in Ohio – there'll be more storms."

"Should we worry about bat infestations?"

"In that damned barn at your house – that's the first thing I thought of when I saw it."

"You know, I've never been in that thing? God…there probably are bats." Kurt shivers and Blaine reaches out to soothe at his arm. "Harmless bats, I'm sure."

"They're rats with wings. Big, transparent, taloned creepy-assed wings." Kurt shivers again and this time grabs Blaine's hand before he can pull away. "I hate bats. I hate the _thought_ of bats."

"No bats in the dorm room, Kiki."

"No thunderstorms tonight either."

"That's right. Everything is okay tonight."

**~~~**~~~**

The practice field McKinley uses at Hocking College is on lower ground than the dorms. It's a good five- to ten-minute walk and you have to cross a tiny, rickety footbridge to get there. As Blaine crosses it this early morning, he has to smile, remembering Kurt's words from yesterday warning him to watch his charm with the girls. The footbridge is where a certain kind of girl thrives – squealing and tip-toeing across as though man-eating gators wait for their next meal in the trickling brook that barely flows under it. It's attention-seeking and Blaine has taken the bait every time. Maybe it's time to let the girls fend for themselves – it is only a 3 ft. bridge after all. And last he checked, gators do not reside in Ohio creek beds.

This morning, the journey down to the field is delightfully silent, absent of squealing girls, posturing boys, and demanding band directors. The sun begins to peek over the hills of Athens County and the grass dampens Blaine's ankles with cool dew. He marches a perfect 8-to-5 step out to his spot for chart 55, eight steps off the hash, half-way between the 45 and 50 yard lines. He does a slow four-point turn, bringing his horn up and begins the silent drill, quietly keeping time with a soft, "Hup, hup, hup."

His thoughts when he unexpectedly awoke at 4:30 am, were noisy and scattered and made the single bed with two teenaged boys snuggled together feel cagey and cramped. To avoid waking Kurt, he took his leave and headed to the practice field where he now stands.

He hasn't felt this focused, this tuned-in since the move from Wapak. Landing in Lima felt abrupt – as though he never really grasped the idea that he and his mom were leaving before he was in Jonesy's office auditioning for a band three times the size, with three times the reputation, and – if he is honest with himself – three times the opportunity for musical fulfillment.

In a matter of weeks, rehearsals began and his hopes were no bigger than wanting to fit in, make some new friends and for once, be a part of a successful band program. Instead, he was met with one Kurt "Kiki" Hummel. Kurt, whose biting tone rang in his head for hours after rehearsals, and worse, whose blue eyes and full lips and perfectly toned arms painted his dreams, both day and night.

But now, the cacophony of the last six weeks of his life has disappeared and he is alone with the morning air, the surrounding nature, and his thoughts fixed solely on the charts, the steps and the music that plays in his head.

He's working on the closer, knowing it will be the focus of the day's rehearsals. He wants to get it right. He wants to show Kurt, his section, Jonesy and yes, even himself, that he can be an effective, caring and firm leader of his band. But, if he doesn't know his steps, if he can't march them with precision, he'll lose credibility and the season will continue with Kurt as the grumpy, yet irresistible leader and Blaine as the sensitive new-age pretend boyfriend/best buddy of the trumpet section.

He finishes the set, and marches to his beginning mark again, conscientiously taking each slow step for the ballad that begins the song – what will hopefully be Santana and Mike's duet. The tempo picks up and he begins the tricky drill, hitting each mark, moving along the expanse of the field. He notes where his section might have issues, stopping and going over specific points to get his muscle memory down pat. Congratulating himself for nailing the slide in measure 24, he extends his stride for the upcoming company front, precision more necessary here than anywhere else in the show. He hits the hash on the 20 yard line, forward-faces on a four-count turn and—

"Horns to the box!"

He snaps his horn up as if shooting sound to the press box and smiles behind his mouthpiece.

Solitude is overrated.

Kurt stands in his own spot eight yards away and they march forward with a kick-step, horns angled perfectly, their unified, "Hup, hup, hup," ticking off the tempo as they bring their two-man company front to its climactic end, spinning off into the last routine before the final  push to the end of the show.

As designed, they lower their horns on a slow four-count and snap to attention as if waiting for the off-field cadence. Blaine doesn't move but a smile spreads across his face.

"What are doing down here, Maynard?"

"I suppose I could ask you the same thing." Blaine finally relaxes and walks off-field to wipe down his ankles from the morning dew.

"I reached for you and—" He stops and Blaine looks up to find Kurt blushing. Kurt motions for Blaine to toss him the towel, not doing a very good job at hiding the pink on his cheeks and ears. "You were gone. I got worried." He wipes down his ankles and sneakers and goes to toss the towel back. "How'd you bypass the hall monitors anyway? I practically had to sacrifice my left nut to get down here."

Blaine catches the towel and laughs, motioning to the first aid station where Mrs. Lopez is sitting quietly reading a book.

"You charmed a band mom."

"She was easy." At that, Mrs. Lopez looks up to the boys and waves.

"You, um—you looked really good…m—marching, I mean. Your drill was dead on."

Blaine's not sure what to do with Kurt's sudden shyness, but it's disarming him. He marks his spot for another run-through as he speaks. "Thanks. We've all struggled since we got it Sunday. But it's the end, you know? It has to be perfect." Blaine turns to the sideline where Kurt stands and opens his arms in invitation. "Start with me this time?"

Kurt smiles, but shakes his head. "Why don't we reset one. Top to bottom."

"Alright. Full show. Then, I have _Reveille_."

"I sort of like waking up this way instead." Kurt takes in his surroundings and smiles as he marches to his opening spot. "This is nice; just the two of us."

And there it is again – _the two of us -_ but instead of trying to call attention to it, make sense of it, probably make more of it than Kurt intends, he lifts his horn and ticks off a four-count to begin.

 


	10. Chapter Nine

Kurt hates the talent show. It's been a tradition of McKinley's band camp for decades and he has yet to meet anyone who really enjoys it. Well, outside of Rachel that is. Rachel never seemed to get the memo that it's a _joke_ talent show. Every person in every section must participate and no one ever takes time from their breaks to prep, so it ends up as two hours of people goofing off, by section, on stage. A "stage" that happens to be the front of the cafeteria.

Since Kurt's been in band, the trumpet section's offerings have amounted to dancing to the California Raisins version of _Heard it Through the Grapevine_ , complete with garbage bag costumes (a band mom idea, in case anyone couldn't tell – hello 1980's), a glorious rendition of _Imperial March_ – on kazoos, and last year's nightmare was a stupid poem written by Doc himself about the idiocy of bandcamp. It ended with Doc ripping the largest belch in the history of McKinley High – or so he liked to tell anyone who asked.

But, this year they have a plan. Yes, it's stupid and goofy and will amount to everyone laughing and feeling ridiculous but that does seem to be the point. Since the band show is Queen, they collectively decide to do a dramatic rendition of _Bohemian Rhapsody_ , Kurt, Blaine, Santana and Nelson, the fourth section leader, lip synching the vocals and the rest of the group providing visual representation of the words. 

They kill it. Blaine does Freddie Mercury like nobody's business and Kurt, Santana and Nelson lip sync the background vocals to perfection. The rest of the section acts out the lyrics in comedic melodrama, and when the song lands on the head-banging guitar riff to the end, the entire band is on its feet dancing around like loons. For a stupid talent show, it couldn't have gone better.

Except for Rachel and the flutes, who have the great dishonor of following them. Rachel titters around, putting all of her props in place – seriously when she have time to make props? – and the rest of the section stands and stares at her, not offering to help and looking like a public murder might be in the cards rather than an amateur hour performance piece.

Kurt worries at his bottom lip and side-eyes Blaine who has clearly figured out that this is going to go from bad to worse. And in light of the discomfort that is palpable in the room, it's starting off pretty badly.

"Hi. My name is Rachel Berry and I'm the section leader of the ever-amazing flute section. We're going to perform a scene from _Les Miserables_ , wherein Fantine has been in conflict with fellow factory workers for sending money to her secret _illegitimate_ daughter. I'll be playing Fantine, of course and the rest of the section is well…everyone else. Please hold your applause until the end."

"Oh sweet Jesus this is going to be a disaster. An epic disaster." Kurt nudges Santana in the side, even while biting back his own snicker. She's right. She just needs to keep quiet.

"At least she can sing?"

"She's—this is going to be a parody or something, right?" Blaine looks just as worried as Kurt is.

"Probably not. Just hold your breath and hope this doesn't go on too long."

"Oh god, I want to rescue her from the humiliation."

"You can't rescue someone aiming straight for the rapids."

And they can't. And she is headed straight for the rapids. The entirety of her section says their lines with the emotion of a block of wood. The snickering begins early and by the time Rachel starts her a capella version of _I Dreamed a Dream_ , Jonesy is standing shooting glares around the room, hoping to settle the worst of it. One of the cardboard props topples over onto Rachel's head and that ends it, the band breaking out in fits of laughter, the rest of the flutes stomping off to find their seats and disassociate themselves from the disaster. Rachel squeals and runs out into the hallway to find, Kurt assumes, a hole in the ground in which to live for a few hundred years.

Santana is practically falling off of her seat laughing, but Blaine is next to Kurt holding his breath and reaching across the table to grab at Kurt's arm in terror for the poor girl.

"Should someone go find her? She must be horrified."

"Yeah. I'll go. God damn her, she just doesn't get it."

Blaine stands to join him but Kurt shakes his head. "Your well-intentioned heart will be sorely misunderstood, Maynard. Stay put. I've done this before – I'll do it again."

Kurt is up and out, trying to follow Rachel's cries as she runs out of the building. He finds her hidden behind an overgrown bush, sliding down the wall in mortified humiliation. He pushes down his guilt, feeling like she partially deserves it for her utter refusal to see things outside of her all-the-world's-a-stage mentality, but the truth of the matter is, all the world is, and always has been, a stage for her – and it will continue to be until she gets paid to be on one.

"Don’t you say anything to me, Kurt Hummel. Not a word. I don't need one of your lectures."

Kurt simply offers her a few napkins Blaine plucked out of a dispenser and shoved in his hands before he took off after her. As he sits next to her, she folds into him, just as they've done time and time again over the years – in second grade when mean old Mrs. Meyers chastised her for missing her best friend Veronica who was out for a week with a nasty case of chicken pox. Then again in fourth grade when the role of Dorothy in Wizard of Oz went to the snotty principal's daughter. It was kismet when the little brat ended up with pneumonia. Rachel had rehearsed the part as an unwritten understudy, so she happily took the role. Her Dorothy to Kurt's wizard.

_Wizard: I am the wizard, great and terrible. Who are you?_

_Dorothy: I am Dorothy, small and meek. Oh, great wizard, we need your help._

And then there were the romantic heartbreaks and the B's in algebra and the most recent meltdown after she visited a local mixer for potential NYADA students and found out that the world was a stage for a whole heap of young ingénues in Ohio who were just as good, if not better than her. She set her new goal to be the next James Galway, and while she is an excellent flute player, well. The world only gets one James Galway.

All in all, this meltdown is a minor one, but Kurt figures that in Rachel's mind, it's just as big as every other one. Because everything is big in Rachel's mind.

He pets her hair and coos and rocks her as she cries and slowly stills, hiccupping breath as she tries to speak again. "Why doesn't anyone like me?"

"Because you're difficult. And because they don't get you."

"You get me; you don’t think I'm difficult."

"I get you. I also think you're impossible."

Rachel chuckles and sniffles and sits up to pull out her ponytail and rewrap it, closing her eyes as Kurt stops her to push a stray strand or two into her hand before she's finished. "I know the talent show's a joke, Kurt. I do."

"Then why do insist on taking it so seriously?"

"Because why _not_? If we have an opportunity to showcase our talents—"

"But this isn't set up for that. It never has been. And Rachel, no one really cares—not this week. We're exhausted. We're in a constant state of sweaty. We're practically malnourished and we all are longing for a moment's privacy. No one's lifelong dreams matter to anyone else right now."

She sits up and huffs. "Well, maybe they should. Our dreams should always matter. Always."

"To us, yes. But, not to the world."

They brush themselves off and Kurt pulls her to stand, folding her into his arms one more time.

"Will you walk me in? Going back is always harder than storming out."

"Always. You don't want to miss the percussion ensemble anyway. I thought I heard them practicing _Tubular Bells_."

"Why do _they_ get to take it seriously?"

"Because they did it as a group. And because they're amazing. And because you love watching Finn's biceps when he plays." She stomps her foot and gives one more good attempt at a pout. "Oh stop it. You, more than anyone, know that a grand entrance trumps everything. Get in there and make it a good one."

He spins her toward the door and when he looks up, Blaine is standing there, holding it open for her, his eyes firmly on Kurt. She walks in, takes a deep breath, straightens her back and flings the doors to the cafeteria open just in time for the percussion ensemble to begin. Kurt and Blaine hang at the door for the performance, not saying a word to each other, but Kurt can feel the heat of Blaine's eyes on him.

Before going back to their table, Kurt dares himself to meet Blaine's gaze. "How long were you out there?"

"Long enough."

"I don't understand."

"I'm just really happy I didn't get stuck on my first impression of you."

Kurt can't stop the blush that rises on his face, so he steps into the cafeteria, bumping into Blaine's shoulder on purpose. "You and me both, Maynard."

**~~~**~~~**

"They're entirely too quiet over there."

"Maybe they're sleeping. You know, like we should be."

Kurt rolls onto his back and huffs out a sigh. "I really thought tonight, of all nights, we'd just fall dead onto our beds and be out."

"Me too. I figured those Tabatha episodes would do it. She's losing her touch."

"I know. Bitchy is only interesting for so long."

Blaine snickers and Kurt gets it. Ha. Ha. He's bitchy. He flings his pillow towards Blaine's face. And lands it.

"You know, you keep doing that and I'm not going to give it back anymore."

"Then I'll whine all night and keep you awake." The pillow lands on Kurt's face with a thud. "Thank you."

They listen to each other breathe and Kurt begins to consider throwing himself onto Blaine's bed. Onto Blaine's… _Blaine_ when something slams against the wall they share with Mike and Sam.

"Ow. Fuck."

They both laugh and get up, tip-toeing to the bathroom door to try to get a better listen. When that doesn't work, they go into the bathroom and press into Mike and Sam's door.

"Is that Sam singing?"

"What song is it?"

" _You Can Leave Your Hat On_. Joe Cocker. Kick ass strip—"

"What?"

"Nothing, just…my brother likes older music and—"

"Stripper music."

"Well, not stripper music per say, but from what he tells me it's a great song to str—why am I telling you this? We need to be in there because this is going to be hilarious."

"You're not getting out of this story, Maynard." Kurt lets it drop for the moment and slides their door open, peeking in, Blaine tip-toeing up to peek over Kurt's shoulder.

They couldn't have prepared themselves for what they find. Mike is on the bed popping the flat of his hand on and off his flash light giving off a make-shift strobe effect. For Sam. Who is standing on his bunk in nothing but boxers and two bras. One for his chest, of course, and one for his head.

"His hat is a D cup."

"Oh! Hey! Guys! Hi!" Mike turns the flashlight off and Sam whines, jumping off the bed to greet Kurt and Blaine as if a midnight visit while dressed in two bras is not only typical, but expected.

"Run out of pizza rolls?"

"Jesus. No – what freshman lost her bra this year?" Kurt sits on Mike's bed and waves off his offer of a can of pop. He wants to go to bed. To sleep. To maybe snuggle, but most definitely not to be sitting in Mike and Sam's room – that smells like the inside of a gym sock – shooting the shit while Sam kicks around in two bras and his boxers.

"Wait? You stole these from a freshman?" Blaine hasn't budged from his spot inside the door. The poor guy might need resuscitation.

"Every year – it's up to the senior guys to deflower a freshman. Since unlawful sexual conduct is a misdemeanor in Ohio, we just steal bras."

"And why _two_ this year?" Kurt yanks the flashlight from Mike's hand when he continues to turn it off and on in an apparent fit of nerves. "You're drawing attention to the room – stop it."

"They were hooked together. So, you know – bonus! I got a hat!"

"Okay. You—continue your little jig there, Sam." Kurt hands Mike his flashlight back and suggests putting it under his pillow for a middle-of-the-night potty run. When he looks at Blaine, whose expression has not flinched any more than his location, he finally cracks a laugh, pulling Blaine back into the bathroom before lifting his finger in threat. "If you guys get caught, our names better not come up."

"No one would believe us anyway – since when have you guys ever touched a bra?"

"May the straps choke you in your sleep. Also? Senior prank starts promptly at 7am. Eat a fast breakfast."

Sam finishes his song as they leave.

_Suspicious minds are talking_  
Trying to tear us apart  
They say that my love is wrong  
They don't know what love is

_You can leave your hat on_

Kurt slides the bathroom door closed and Blaine's mouth is still agape, his finger pointing at Mike and Sam's room. "Blaine? Are you turned on or in shock?"

"Yes. I am."

Kurt laughs again and pushes Blaine into their room, shoving him into his own bed for tonight. They really need a good night's sleep and as it is, poor Blaine is going to be sporting wood all night.

This might go down as the most exasperating bandcamp of all time.

"So…strippers?"

"Shut up. I'm sleeping."

**~~~**~~~**

Senior prank has a bad history with McKinley Marching Titans. Apparently, it started as an initiation activity with one goal – abject humiliation. Social justice awareness and, rumor has it, a threatened lawsuit, put that business to an end. However, the seniors still like to try to get away with a little something on the last day of bandcamp.

And Jonesy allows it, as long as the emphasis is on _a little something_ and not _prank._ Kurt knows of the failed attempts his first three years in band and hopes that this year, while the plan is pretty lame, it goes off without a hitch. Or, without Beaman killing it before it gets off the ground, which is what happened his Freshman through Junior years.

It seems Beaman knows about today's plan because she doesn't even flinch when forty students get up and leave breakfast early. She doesn't send out band parents to put a stop to forty students carting sleeping bags and blankets to the practice field, wearing all forms of sleeping garb – eye covers, rollers, fuzzy slippers, flannel pants, iPods.

So, when they all spread out across the field in groups of two or more, and lay down as if to sleep, Kurt looks around and smiles. This year it might go off okay. He and Blaine are stretched out on Blaine's unzipped sleeping bag, watching Finn and Puck unceremoniously get Artie onto a stack of sleeping bags on the fifty-yard line. Somehow, he's going to direct rehearsal from there. It's probably a good thing his legs aren't functional because all Kurt sees is a broken leg in his future.

Which is a really insensitive thing to even think. Chuckling at himself, he rolls over and bumps Blaine's shoulder. "You're quiet this morning."

"So fucking tired." Blaine's head droops onto Kurt's shoulder and he can't help but rest his cheek on his curls.

"I know. But tonight – we go home to our own beds."

"Basketball-sized space between partners, boys. You know the rules." Santana purposely walks between them, on Blaine's bag and takes off running when she feels Kurt grab at her ankles.

"You're lucky I'm exhausted, Snix. I might actually forget to give you laps for that."

She flips him off as she falls onto a sleeping bag with an already napping Brittany. "Sleepover. My house. Saturday. You owe me some stories, Kiki."

"Mmmm. We'll see about that."

"You sleepover with—"

Kurt picks two thick blades of grass and ties one to the other. "Oh yeah. Have for years. Rachel and Mercedes too. Although never with Santana – there would be no survivors."

"How long have you known Snix? You just seem like," Blaine picks a white clover and holds it until Kurt finishes tying a third blade of grass to his first two, "a pretty unlikely pair."

"We are. We met in eighth grade. She came from St. Charles Catholic. A cheerleader with one hell of a reputation." Kurt looks at the clover and then at Blaine, not taking it.

"For your—whatever it is you're making."

"I'm not sure what I'm making, but thank you." He plucks it from Blaine's hand and leans in a little closer, smiling when Blaine reaches for another clover. "She stole my alcove."

"She what?"

"I'd get picked on all the time. There was this alcove by the teacher's lounge where I'd go to cry or catch my breath or whatever. One day I headed there after somebody tripped me and my folders went flying all over the hall, and she was there. Curled up into a ball, crying her eyes out."

"What did you get picked on for?"

Kurt took another blade of grass and looked at Blaine like he'd grown another head. "Maynard. Look at me."

"I am. What did you get picked on for?"

Blaine's eyes are so sincere, so bright and glowing amber in the early morning light that Kurt has to look away. He has to fuss with his project more, picking his own clover flowers and grass, intertwining them and weaving them as his mind races to places he had convinced himself he'd never be visiting in high school. Movie dates and prom and snuggling with a cute boy in the stands for football Friday nights. Stolen kisses and having a companion at Friday night dinners with his family once football season is over. Passing notes in English and make-outs in the instrument room hoping Beaman has left for the day.

And as he twists and spins the flowers and grass, he can see it all as clear as Blaine's eyes. And he is having trouble finding his breath to speak. But a flower pops off its stem and Blaine is chuckling and his daydream fades for some clarity. "Anything. Everything. My voice. My clothes. My inability to do anything in gym class without humiliating myself. The options were plentiful." Kurt pulls the string he's made back to get a better look at it and takes another clover from Blaine. "I bet you didn't get picked on much."

"Not at school."

Kurt stops his work and looks at Blaine again, who's focusing on fanning the few blades of grass he's picked between his thumb and forefinger. "Home?"

Blaine nods and passes a blade over, not looking at Kurt at all. "So, why was Santana crying?"

Kurt lets it drop. "She was known as the class slut."

"Oh. So, she's bi?"

"No. She was hiding. And her reputation was worse than reality, but reality wasn't great. That took about four alcove meet-ups to learn, but as the year went on, we'd share more about why we were there. Never talked in the halls. Never socialized. Never acknowledged we knew each other – even in band – but by high school, we'd let that go and—" Kurt grinned as he tied the two ends of his masterpiece together. It's a wreath. "We've been friends ever since."

"You shared each other's secrets."

"Yes. We came out to each other first – before we were even sure what it meant. I mean, we _knew_ , but we didn't—well, you know how it is. You don’t completely understand the weight of _I'm gay_ until you've said it out loud."

"You're lucky you had each other."

"We are. Sit up for a minute." Kurt gets up on his knees and Blaine sits facing him, a stray blade of grass sticking out of one of his curls. Kurt clucks his tongue and picks it out with a smile and places the wreath on Blaine's head, delicately weaving his curls through the leaves and flowers to secure it to his head. "Think it'll stay on when we lie back down?"

Blaine's eyes are still closed from Kurt's fussing and he reaches up to wiggle it. "I think so. How do I look?" He blinks his eyes open and Kurt gasps.

_Beautiful. Radiant. Handsome. Comely. Edible._

"They're crossing the bridge – assume your positions!"

The moment killed, they plop back down, their giggles mingling with the rest of the seniors' and await the arrival of the underclassmen.

And it comes as expected, full of whining and complaining and _why do we have to do this while they SLEEP_ , and _you're on my mark, Kiki_ and of course, the seniors respond with silence or snores or groaning roll-overs – they're taking this free, on-field nap to heart. Jonesy spends calisthenics and warm-ups, biting back laughter and taking pictures from the tower. For a lame prank, it's good, harmless fun. And, no calisthenics – which is never a bad gig.

After thirty minutes of the silliness, she puts an end to it and everyone's up, tossing their sleeping bags to the sidelines and grabbing their horns from the band dad's pick-up truck where they'd been hiding.

"Someone get Disco his chair so he can get on the tower." The band groans – having Artie on the 50 to direct had been hilarious for everyone. "Let's start with the closer – chart 55. Santana and Mike, hit the 40 for the duet. Everyone else, congratulate them. They're going to kill it."

Kurt and Blaine high five each other and Kurt jogs to Santana's new spot, kissing her forehead even when she pushes him back. "Save it for your little trumpet pixie over there."

Kurt's not to be swayed. "I'm proud of you."

"Kiki, get back to your mark. Disco, start us off and…Maynard, what in the—nice. Nice headgear, babe."

"Thank you, ma'am. I think it matches my eyes."

"I don't get paid enough for you people. Hit it, Disco!"

**~~~**~~~**

Blaine wears the fool headdress all day. Flowers pop off of it and Kurt picks new ones, weaving them in and it's time for the next set, the next sectional, the next break. It becomes more and more difficult for Kurt to pretend that standing in such close proximity, twisting his fingers into the loops of Blaine's hair, feeling his breath on his overheated cheeks isn't driving him absolutely mad.

But, he manages. Or so he hopes. Because, he fears, if Blaine shows up one more time with a clover in his hand and a pout on his lips, Kurt's going to give it all up, kiss him and then—well, he can't allow himself to get past the idea of the kiss.

Because the kiss cannot happen. Inner-band dating is disastrous – see exhibit A of his step-brother and Rachel – but inner- _section_ dating? Impossible. Ill-advised. Ignorant and oh god, Blaine's bending over to stretch out his legs and back.

Besides, who said Blaine is even remotely interested? Surely, he's not.

"Everyone rested from break?" Jonesy pauses long enough for no one to respond. It's the final rehearsal of band camp. Two hours in the oppressive heat, senior hug line, pack and head home. And then, fall into bed for the next four days before another rehearsal Tuesday morning. Point? No one is rested. " _Show Must Go On_. Reset 40. Maynard, do you have what you were showing me ready?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Please stop calling me ma'am."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Mayn—kick out from your spot on chart 47 and then join Kiki at the 50. Trumpets spread out your spacing from there until the closer for this run-through." She pauses as everyone takes their spot, but Kurt hasn't moved.

_Join Kiki at the 50._

He feels the blood drain from his face and he's sure he looks like he's just seen a ghost, but he can't bring himself to function. Did Blaine get the solo after all – even after he's being doing it all week? Why is he _joining_ him mid-way through?

"Hey. Kiki. Let's move."

Kurt's eyes focus on Blaine's, earnest and concerned and happy. So fucking happy and all Kurt can do is stare at him. "What's going on?"

Blaine takes his hand and guides Kurt to his mark. "Do you trust me?"

When Kurt looks at him, really looks at him, the floral wreath still perfectly perched on his head, his skin glowing with the kiss of weeks in the sun, a sheen of sweat covering his forehead and neck, his eyes dancing like they always do – always – he has to shake his head in disbelief. How can one person evoke so many emotions with one glance? "I do." He looks up to the tower as if to get one more reassurance from Jonesy and sighs. "With caution."

"Fair enough. I think when this is over, you will completely."

Blaine winks and takes off to his mark when Artie blows the whistle leaving Kurt standing on his mark to await the count. And to trust.

Which isn't easy given the situation.

The song begins and Kurt plays with the band for the four-bar introduction, making his way to the 50 yard line where he'll stay for the duration of the song, only moving closer to the home-stand sideline. He hits his cue for the solo and plays it as well as ever, holding a little back from his typical 100% routine. His mind is still busy racing and questioning and wondering what's coming around the bend of the song.

Nothing appears out of place when he starts the second verse, the band executing abstract images around him. Next to the simple act of playing and performing, it's his favorite part of marching, feeling 150 other people swirling and spinning around him, making motion out of music. He starts the second phrase of the verse and he sees new motion to his left. And hears new sound.

It's Blaine, walking toward him playing a counter melody to his solo. It's pretty, admittedly, but – what is he doing? Why is he doing? Why—he focuses back on his solo and Blaine stands next to him, a response to the call of Kurt's melodious solo. As they continue, he recognizes it as the lead guitar part of the original song and when the chorus starts again and the band picks up their volume so the solo part is no longer featured, he lowers his horn and snaps his head to Blaine.

"What in the _hell_ are you doing?"

"Accompanying. Adding color. Just—go with it. Please?"

"Kiki, you're going to miss your cue – quit talking and pay attention!"

Kurt shoots a glare up to the tower and pulls himself straighter, tighter, raising his horn and hitting his cue straight on, full volume, bellowing, rich sound soaring over the band, but Blaine is still there. Still playing. Wailing high and harmonic and matching perfectly to Kurt's melody. _Mother fucker._ It's gorgeous. It adds. It embellishes.

It infuriates.

It. Hurts.

Just as expected, the song ends and the band explodes in joy, Jonesy is on her feet with a rare-to-be-seen grin and Beaman has tossed her clipboard in the air in excitement. Beaman doesn't _do_ excited.

And Kurt? Steams. Seethes. _Fumes._

He feels Blaine's excited gaze on him. Sees the bounce as he stands there waiting for Kurt to what? Pick him up and swirl him around in emotional glee? Bow down to him as the new king of stage stealing?

"Kiki! Maynard! Absolutely stunning! Show stopping! Maynard, that is brilliant. Alright, people. That's our new chart set up for _The Show Must Go On_. Reset one."

And that's it. No discussion. No input from him. No warning, no respect. No nothing.

With a calm that scares even himself, Kurt turns on his heel and walks off the field, grabbing his cooler and gig bag on the way out.

"Kiki! If you leave this practice field, there _will_ be consequences."

He keeps walking.

"Maynard, Snix, get back to your spots. No one follows him. No one."

Kurt walks across the rickety bridge and onto the parking lot, the smack of his tennis shoes resounding on the hot tar and gravel. He hears footsteps behind him and figures it's a band parent been sent to make sure he doesn't do something stupid like run off to the circus – which minus the constant smell of manure doesn't sound like such a bad idea – and he keeps right on walking. Up the hill, past the cafeteria and activities center and into the dorms. He's dripping with sweat, heavy with emotions so strong, so intense he doesn't have names for them. Mrs. Lopez wordlessly follows him into the elevator where he stares at the numbers over the door, silent.

"You didn't know that was coming, did you?"

Kurt shoots her a glare so forceful, she pulls back and looks to the ground until the bell dings for the 5th floor.

"I'll—I'll be in the hall waiting for you."

"Whatever."


	11. Chapter Ten

Blaine doesn't know how long he stands on the 50-yard line watching Kurt walk away. He hears Jonesy's voice over the speaker calling for him, but he can't be bothered to care. He looks to Santana for support and only finds a turned back and a pony tail bobbing in the breeze as she rants to the other trumpet players. Rachel huffs and huddles with her flutes, Puck flips him off. Finn simply stares and shakes his head. In one last effort, he looks up to the tower, catching Artie's eye.

"What just happened here?"

"You done fucked up, son."

"But, everyone cheered."

"Until Kiki didn't." And Artie was clearly finished because he rolled his chair up closer to the edge to get a view of Jonesy and Beaman overhead. "Where to, boss ladies?"

"Let's move to the closer. Reset 55."

Who does Kurt think he is? The prince of the band? Some sort of special snowflake that needs to be coddled and stroked and pressed to make the fun boy he's spent this past week with come out to play? Someone who clearly has the talent for Carnegie Hall, but not the backbone or the ego to let others shine now and then? If anyone had taught Blaine about sharing the spotlight these past few weeks, it was Kurt. Everything is a team effort. Everything.

And here he stands, temporarily the lead of the trumpet section – a section that clearly wants his head on a platter. He sighs and jogs over to take a swallow of water, setting up for chart 55. His heart pangs with the memory from only a day ago when they marched  this set together before dawn, feelings bubbling inside of him that he never imagined for himself – not in high school anyway. Not in another conservative town. He is falling and he knows, he knows, he _knows_ Kurt is falling too.

Had he ruined that? Had he ruined the chemistry of the show? He was just trying to—

"MAYNARD! We've called attention. Horn up!"

"S—sorry, ma'am. Jonesy. Sorry, Jonesy." His plea fades as her glare intensifies and Artie begins the set.

And then he's on the bus. He doesn't remember finishing rehearsal. He barely remembers senior hug line. He doesn't even remember going back to the dorm to collect his things. He does remember that Kurt wasn't there, but his food had been nicely packed up for him so all he'd have to do is grab and go. Oh, and his one missing sock was placed atop his food bin.

He plops himself onto a bench and pulls out his iPod hoping to disappear into a playlist. As he contemplates 70's favorites, OSU Marching Band, or symphonic classics, he feels the air change in the bus. Kurt is approaching, looking everywhere but at Blaine, taking a seat across the aisle, a few rows back. Santana follows close behind, almost sycophantic, touching him, making sure she puts them into the right seat, snuggling in next to him like a mother with her child sick with the flu.

Blaine sort of wants to scream. He yanks his ear buds out of his ears and tosses his iPod onto the bench as he slides into the seat in front of Kurt, knees on the cushion, staring down on him.

"Is this how it's going to be? You're just going to pout like a child because you might _not_ be the center of the fucking universe?"

Kurt looks up to him, the blue of his eyes flashing such anger Blaine could flinch. But he refuses. "You have no idea what you're even talking about, Maynard. Take your seat."

They stare each other down, Santana probably adding to the mix, but Blaine can't be bothered to avert his eyes to find out – he's grateful she's keeping quiet. He reaches up and plucks the wreath of grass and flowers from his head, tiny white petals spilling between them as his curls release themselves from the foliage that begins to untwist itself from the circle Kurt had put it in hours before. "You know, _Kiki,_ for someone who preaches about unity and family and winning competitions, you sure as hell don’t like it when the spotlight isn't shining directly on you."

His final words echo throughout the bus as everyone has fallen silent. Blaine shoves the immediate panic down and tosses the wreath onto Kurt's lap.

Kurt watches it fall and looks up again, the anger in his eyes flickering for a moment into something else. Hurt? Sadness? The anger is clear again before Blaine can decide what it is. With a quick glance at Santana, he slides out of the seat to take his own back, sinking behind the high-back cushioned chair with his headphones, cranking up Haydn's _Music for the Royal Fireworks_.

Pomp. Circumstance. Royalty. Perfect for Sir Duke Kurt Fucking Hummel.

**~~~**~~~**

_Blaine [08-13-11 2:45am]: Okay, let me try this method since you're ignoring daytime attempts. Just explain to me how I'm now the devil incarnate._

_Santana [08-13-11 2:48am]: Dude. I gave you one job – and you blew it._

_Blaine [08-13-11 2:50am]: And we have communication. Thank you._

_Santana [08-13-11 2:51am]: We have no such thing._

_Blaine [08-13-11 2:52am]: Words between two people is communication. Will you please fill me in. I can't sleep and I feel like shit._

_Santana [08-13-11 2:53am]: The fact that you are so fucking clueless only gives me more joy to say…goodnight Blaine._

_Santana [08-13-11 2:53am]: Oh, and? I'm glad you feel like shit. You deserve it._

When the thought of moving back home to live with his dad, his dad's new toy and her most-likely illegitimate offspring sounds better than dealing with any of this for one moment longer, he knows something has to change.

But Blaine is, if nothing else, persistent. Stubborn. Persistent. Most definitely persistent.

_Blaine [08-13-11 3:12am]: So, I hear 3 am texts are the preferred method of communication for the amazing McKinley Marching Titans._

_Rachel [08-13-11 3:15am]: Not the Marching Titans. Only a select few of us, Blaine. You made me smudge my facial mask._

_Blaine [08-13-11 3:16am]: I'm sorry?_

_Rachel [08-13-11 3:17am]: I'm not the one you should be apologizing to. Goodnight, Blaine._

_Blaine [08-13-11 3:18am]: Can you tell me exactly what I should be apologizing for?_

_Rachel [08-13-11 3:19am]: You honestly don't know?_

_Blaine [08-13-11 3:20am]: No. I mean, it's obviously about the solo, but I wasn't trying to steal anyone's thunder._

_Rachel [08-13-11 3:21am]: Said the understudy to the star he just poisoned._

_Blaine [08-13-11 3:22am]: Seriously, Rachel? SERIOUSLY!?_

_Rachel [08-13-11 3:23am]: I said goodnight, Blaine. And if I get a pimple from this, I'm naming it Maynard._

If it all wasn't so ridiculous, Blaine would laugh. If it also wasn't 3am and his body wasn't screaming for sleep, he might kick something. And the strength of want he has for having Kurt in his room to talk to, to snuggle with, to share pizza rolls and to giggle and shush is most definitely unhealthy. And, not helping anything.

Right. Persistent.

_Blaine [08-13-11 3:32am]: Pool. Tomorrow. Noon?_

_Mike [08-13-11 3:35am]: Why?_

_Blaine [08-13-11 3:36am]: Mike, please? I'm confused. I didn't mean to hurt anyone. Everyone is shutting me out and I just want some fucking answers._

_Mike [8-13-11 3:37am]: So, I'm not even your first attempt?_

_Blaine [08-13-11 3:38am]: You're my most direct attempt, ass. Give me a break._

_Mike [08-13-11 3:39am]: What are you feeding me?_

_Blaine [08-13-11 3:45am]: Looks like we have meat for burgers? Some chicken breasts? I'll see if Mom will whip up a pasta salad._

_Mike [08-13-11 3:46am]: Add homemade chocolate chip and I'll be there._

_Blaine [08-13-11 3:47am]: You're kidding me, right? I have to bribe you with food?_

_Mike [08-13-11 3:48am]: You hurt my man Kurt. You've gotta earn it back, dude._

_Blaine [08-13-11 3:50am]: Jesus Christ. Fine. Chocolate chip cookies, pasta salad and what do you want? Beef or chicken?_

_Mike [08-13-11 3:51am]: Chicken. A nice bbq sauce. Your mom's lemonade. YOU make the salad; it's not her fault you're a dick._

Before Blaine shuts his phone off, he sends one more text.

_Blaine [08-13-11 3:52am]: I know you're not talking to me, but I wanted to tell you that I miss you tonight. My pillows don't smell right._

**~~~**~~~**

"I made it all. Are you happy?"

"Ecstatic. I want the recipe for the barbeque sauce."

Blaine gets up, wraps a towel around his waist and pads into the kitchen not saying a word. He brings back a jar of Matt's Hogspit Barbeque Sauce and slams it onto the table. "We have another bottle. It's yours."

Mike reads the bottle and laughs. "Hogspit? How appetizing."

"Finger-lickin' good. Now, stop wasting my time and talk to me."

"I haven't had a dip in the pool yet."

"Mike."

"Why is it so important to you? Kurt has conniptions. He gets over them. You've been the victim of a few of them before."

"That was before."

"Before??"

Blaine sighs, takes off his towel, adjusts the drawstring of his trunks and takes a jogging leap into the deep end of their pool. Pond. In-ground pool that's been built to look like a combination beachfront and backyard pond. It's fucking weird but next to his bedroom, it's the only place he feels at home.

And now he's plunged into the water where he can collect his thoughts before resurfacing. Which he does with a swoosh of his hair, tossing water in circles around his head.

Mike isn't at the picnic table any more.

"Marco."

"Pol—" Blaine spins to Mike's voice and laughs, splashing him quickly and thoroughly before diving underwater again to swim away. If he plays his cards right, Mike will forget what he said. And more importantly, what he didn't say.

Mike doesn't forget.

Blaine pulls himself up and out of the water to canon ball off of the short "pier" leading into the deep end. Before he can even jog to the end of it, he sees Mike treading water right where he was planning to land.

"Before what?"

He's also smirking. It's annoying.

"Before—" Blaine takes a few quick steps and jumps in, curling his body up tight before plunging into the water with an enormous splash. He stays under longer than necessary again, popping through the surface, and like a cherubic water feature he spits a perfect arc of water from his mouth.

"You are a master at avoidance."

"It's called thinking."

Mike isn't having it and Blaine sighs in resignation. " _Before_ I realized he wasn't the jackass I originally thought he was."

Mike still isn't having it, but Blaine leaves it as his answer. He swims back to the edge, walking up the corner of the pond that's been made to look like a small beach and plops himself into an Adirondack chair, legs splayed, hair dripping, curls springing free from the weight of the water soaking them. Sure, there's more to it, but that's not what he wants to talk about.

"Well, you're right about that. He's not a jackass." Mike joins him, grabbing their towels before sitting down. "He's had more opportunities than most of us to be one, but he's never stooped to it. He might do jackass things – like we all do – but he's never, at his core, been a jackass."

"How long have you known him?"

"K-12. I look back at pictures and have to laugh. He was covered in freckles. Round face. Big blue eyes – he belonged in commercials for Smucker's jelly or something."

Blaine clearly sees an impish little boy, shining eyes, getting away with murder while baking cookies to make up for any misdeeds he might have committed. "He does freckle a lot in the sun." He throws his towel over his head to dry his hair. To hide his blush that those words actually came out of his mouth. To avoid the look he knows Mike is giving him.

"Dude. What's this really about?"

Blaine pulls the towel from his head, squeezing excess moisture from his hair as he goes. He finally levels his gaze at Mike, grateful for the friendship that has been forming between them since his first week in the band. Mike's funny. He's smart. He's observant. And he still hasn't posted the pop-and-lock video from home bandcamp. That goes a long way – Blaine still hasn't encountered his first day at McKinley – he doesn't need a viral video to precede him.

"I feel like I’m the bad guy because of a ghost."

"You're probably right."

"How am I supposed to work with that? This Doc dude - he's gone, but Kurt carries the weight of him like a bag of rotten potatoes."

"Well, you sort of keep putting more potatoes in the bag."

"Jesus. Okay, who the hell is Doc?"

"I haven't had any cookies, yet."

"On the picnic table, you asshat. Bring me a couple."

"You are _not_ the hostess with the mostest."

"I made you lunch. I'm providing you a urine-free, squealing-girl-free swimming hole. And, if you'd stop eating long enough, excellent conversation."

Mike snaps him with his damp towel and retrieves the entire container of cookies, placing it on the small table between them. "What do you want to know about Doc?"

"Why is he still haunting the practice field? Did he and Kurt date or something?"

Mike chokes on his cookie and laughs. "Oh god, no. Doc never dated much because no girl in her right mind would want him, but, no. Very straight. He just—I think he was threatened by Kurt?"

"Because Kurt was good?"

"Yes. From 5th grade on, he sort of stood out among the rest of us who were just honking and spitting into our horns. He made music, even when the only song we were playing was _Go Tell Aunt Rhodie_."

"Was Doc any good?"

"He thought he was. We really didn't know him until our freshman year. He was pretty impressed with himself. And Jonesy was too."

"Then he had to have been good."

"He had range. I was playing trumpet then too, and he'd do the squealing, wailing shit you do. Only, he wasn't as tight as you are. He was all over the place but very athletic, like you. He played with his whole body."

"And 'Doc' was for…Severinsen?"

"Yep. Which, in hindsight, was pretty rude to Mr. Severinsen."

"Yes. So Kurt's the prize in middle school and you all get up to high school and Doc's sitting on Kurt's perch?"

"Well, Kurt was the best of our class – the whole band, not just us trumpets. So, if anything, Kurt was primed to sit on Doc's perch."

"This is beginning to sound like gay porn."

"Okay, dude. I don't even want to know."

Mike's face is a delightful mixture of humor and horror and Blaine can only cackle at him. "Okay, we'll save the gay sex primer for another visit. We'll only go to first base today."

"I'm—glad?" Mike is still a little horrified. "Should I go on, or do you need a moment to think about Doc's perch?"

"I'd just as soon not think about Doc's perch. I'd rather think about Kurt's—um. Problem. With Doc." Blaine shoves what is probably his fifth cookie into his mouth.

"Right." Mike's smile isn't missed, but Blaine sputters out something resembling _go on_ and Mike does. "So, Doc was threatened by Kurt's raw talent. He didn't have Doc's range, but – well, you know how he plays. He wasn't as good then, of course. That shit doesn't happen overnight."

"No, his talent showed up the day he was born."

"So, instead of maybe practicing harder to get better, or buddying up with Kurt to learn from him, or you know, just shutting up and being a decent human being, he picked on him. Every day. Every moment. Any opportunity. We'd play a passage, Jonesy would stop us to go over something and if it wasn't the trumpets, he'd have a comment."

"Like what?"

"Called him every homophobic name in the book. He told him he played like a daisy. Like a girl, a sissy. Looked like one. Dressed like one too. Sounded like one. Would even fucking wiggle his fingers near his crotch – _is it even real?_ "

"Oh. Fuck."

"Yeah. And Kurt would just sit there, glare of course. That would shut smart people up – you've seen the power his glare has—"

"I swear I have burn marks from a few of them."

"Right. But, he'd never fight back. Every once and awhile he'd flip him off or stage whisper for him to shut up, smack his hand away, but he just took it. And then, he went home and practiced more."

"He did tell me he got picked on a lot, but that was middle school."

"He did. He was _always_ the kid with a label of some kind. The One Who Wears Ties And Jackets. The One Whose Mom Died. The One Who Made Soufflé."

"Soufflé?"

"Eighth Grade French Class. Oh, and That Kid Whose Voice Never Changed."

Blaine rolls his eyes at the stupidity. He's not immune to it – his father is an expert orator in homophobic, bigoted language – but it never ceases to surprise him. "So why didn't anyone speak up? Tell Jonesy? Kurt said band was a safe place."

"It is. No one physically pushed him around here. And he'd get worked up if we wanted to talk to Jonesy. I think he was afraid his dad would pull him out. Even with Doc, the music was his sanity."

Blaine nods, then stands and stretches. "I'm hot again – water?"

"Yes, water."

They make their way in – Mike with his own crazy canon ball and Blaine with a screaming run from the slope of the sandy beachside near their chairs. It's a welcome break. A break from the heat. A break from the conversation – which he's not done with, but he's beginning to see the problem. To see why Kurt was so affronted at his simple presence, no less at the way he introduced himself to the band.

The fact that Kurt let him in at all is nothing short of a miracle.

After splashing and thrashing around for a while, they settle back into their chairs with their lemonade, flapping towels over their hair and laughing at the wimpy-sounding ice cream truck as it rolls by the front of Blaine's house, a broken version of _The Entertainer_ tinkling away as it goes.

"I hope the freezer in that thing is in better shape than his sound system."

"You'd need to bring a bowl to the truck. Here's your liquid Choco Taco."

Blaine shivers at the idea and wraps his towel around his bare shoulders. "So, I'm trying to decide if I'm more offended than ever that everyone compared me to this douchebag."

"Well, in our defense, we only knew you from your show last year. And you played better than Doc. But you also showed off like Doc. You're a very athletic player, too and it just—"

"I walked into a powder keg and didn't even know it."

"Kurt survived Doc's abuse by getting better and better and plotting out this season. With Doc gone, he was going to shine. He was going to lead the way we should have been led. Doc was an ass to everyone – I moved to mellon because I just couldn't take him anymore."

"And then I show up and fuck it all up."

"And you brought rotten potatoes."

"I was—this sounds awful, but at Wapak, either I played big and wailing, or we'd fall apart. I was the glue."

"Yeah, we sort of don't need that – and you showed up acting like we did."

"Right. Jesus." Blaine dries his hair again – unnecessarily, but the cave of the towel seems comforting somehow. He pulls it down, leaving it in a puddle in his lap. "I feel like I should apologize to everyone about that."

"Water under the bridge. We've forgiven you. Well, we _had_ …"

"See, I thought after band camp—I mean, Kurt and I were—things were changing. We were friends,  I guess. Something was happening. I thought the trust was there and he'd get what I was doing."

"Well, he didn't. _We_ didn't. That applause you heard after your little show was mostly freshman and sophomores – people that don't know the history."

"I wasn't trying to hurt him. I just wanted to make things better."

"You need to tell _him_ that. Because, Maynard—that was—man, I like you and all. You're cool. You're fun and your talent is sick, but what were you _thinking_? That was just a dick move, pulling that in front of everybody. Let's not even start on how insensitive it was of Jonesy."

"I thought—and she agreed—we just—we knew it'd sound amazing. His solo was so smooth and sultry and fucking _beautiful_ , but the arrangement needed something. Kurt wasn't lacking – the _whole_ of it was and that guitar solo in the original is just—it's killer."

"Well, it backfired. And worse? It sounded amazing. If you two can get over this… _thing_ you have going on – and don't think I don't notice that there's more to it than hurt egos – it's going to bring the house down at every stadium we play."

"There's nothing going on between us."

"Bullshit."

"There's not!" Blaine is firm and sure and he looks over at Mike and he's not so sure and firm because something _was_ happening and that's the aching part of this all that he'd just rather ignore. But Mike is staring square at it. Fucker. "Okay, fine. Another reason I thought this duet would be cool was so he and I could spend some more time together. Practicing. And—practicing."

"Ah-ha!"

"Shut up. He's—nothing's happening. He doesn't even see me." Mike side eyes him and slugs back the rest of his watered-down lemonade as though he knows Blaine has more to say. Which he does. "We slept in the same bunk two nights at band camp."

"Wait, what?"

"We—okay, I have a _thing_ with thunderstorms and that night it stormed so bad? I was losing my shit. And he—he came to my bunk and held me and we practiced the fingerings for stand tunes until we fell asleep."

"It only stormed one night."

"Yeah, so the next night we just were lying there talking and—then it was morning."

"You just slept?"

"Yeah, man. Just slept. And talked. And it was—" Blaine grabbed another cookie and took an angry bite, unsure whose head he was biting off, but he was glad it tasted like chocolate chips. "—Mike, you can't tell anyone. I really, _really_ like him."

"You do know that's mutual, right?"

"What? Psh. No. He's—no. I mean, he's sweet as hell when we're alone and when I'm not being a jackass, but—no. He's out of my league."

"Oh, he is not." Blaine looks at Mike whose expression is more serious now than it has been this entire conversation. "You need to work this out. Not just for the band. But for you because the two of you could do amazing things together. Musically, personally. The sparks that fly between you two aren't just sparks of anger."

"Well. That's—thank you. Very alluring and all, but I'd like to tackle one mess at a time."

"And the first mess is?"

"Getting his trust back. For the band."

"Right. For the band."

"Shut up."


	12. Chapter Eleven

_Santana [08-14-11 3:02am]: So since you bailed on our sleepover tonight…_

_Kurt [08-14-11 3:05am]: I'm tired. We never sleep on sleepovers. And look, here I am talking to you at 3am anyway._

_Santana [08-14-11 3:06am]: See, if you'd have kept our date, we could be talking AND you could be snuggling up on my boobies as we watch movies._

_Kurt [08-14-11 3:07am]: Yes, but when we're done here I can roll over and go to sleep without you tickling me so hard I almost wet your bed._

_Santana [08-14-11 3:08am]: Whiner. So, have you forgiven He Who Shall Not Be Named?_

_Kurt [08-14-11 3:08am]: Voldemort's dead._

_Santana [08-14-11 3:09am]: I'll take that as a no._

_Kurt [08-14-11 3:10am]: Let's put it this way – I am not looking forward to rehearsal Tuesday._

_Santana [08-14-11 3:11am]: It sounded amazing, Keeks._

_Kurt [08-14-11 3:12am]: I'm never snuggling up on your boobies again._

_Santana [08-14-11 3:13am]: Fine. I'll call Maynard and see if he's into non-sexual boobie snuggling. You CAN be replaced, you know._

_Kurt [08-14-11 3:14am]: I'm the only one who knows how to rub your feet the way you like it._

_Santana [08-14-11 3:22am]: Fuck._

_Kurt [08-14-11 3:25am]: It took you that long to NOT have a comeback? I fell asleep. I am so disappointed in you._

_Santana [08-14-11 3:26am]: Look. Just…just fucking forgive him before Tuesday, okay? I am not going to deal with my gaybies hate-playing. I dealt with that for too long with Doc._

_Kurt [08-14-11 3:27am]: Doc was not your gayby. And? I'm going to sleep._

_Santana [08-14-11 3:28am]: Now I need you to rub my feet, you asshole._

_Kurt [08-14-11 3:29am]: Soon. I promise._

_Santana [08-14-11 3:29am]: Fine. I love you._

_Kurt [08-14-11 3:30am]: I love you too. And your boobies._

**~~~**~~~**

"Baboons would have raised cleaner people." Kurt yanks a pair of dirty gym shorts out of a top instrument locker and tosses it behind him. While he's perched on the floor of the lowest locker, he peeks deeper, hoping he doesn’t find anything that smells worse than the shorts did.

Something liquid seeps through a brown bag that taunts him from the farthest back corner. "Jesus Fucking Christ. Neanderthals. Every last one of 'em." He stretches both arms into the locker and lifts himself a little higher, feet dangling into the open cage beneath. With his index finger and thumb he gingerly drags the bag across the floor of the cabinet, holds his breath and flings it behind him, not giving a good god damn if it explodes into a fatty, greasy mess on the floor. "She just said clean the instrument room. Not the new mess outside of it."

No one is listening to him and he knows it. Rehearsal ended twenty minutes ago; this is his "consequence" for leaving the final rehearsal of band camp to have his one-man pity party in his dorm room. Considering he thought he might lose the solo – or worse – his section leader status, he's pretty relieved.

Until he pulls a cleaning wipe out of its container and swipes at the floor of the top locker he's been digging in. "Good god, what the fuck was in that bag!?"

He hops down and covers his mouth and nose, taking a few cleansing breaths before stepping back onto the floor of the lowest locker to hike himself up and get the job over with. Well, this locker over with. It's his fourth one. There are fifty lockers. He might be here until rehearsal tomorrow.

"What are you doing?"

Kurt starts, hits his head on the top of the locker, swears and hops down with a cleaning wipe dripping with…something. Yellow. And…green? And still dripping. "Fuck. Me." He looks to where the voice came from and rolls his eyes. Of course. "What does it _look_ like I'm doing?"

He cups the dripping mess and tosses the wipe out into the band room, plucks another to clean his hand, and then two more to finish the job. He most definitely does not want to have a discussion with anyone, especially Blaine. And his earnest eyes. And his earnest hands absently reaching to help which he doesn't need to thank you very much. Blaine simply needs to _go away_.

He finishes that locker, puts the mellophone back in it and hops down, dragging the master key from his pocket to unlock the middle locker. He pulls out the two clarinet cases from it, peeks around, smiles and closes it back up. He considers going to the bottom locker but would just as soon as not be on all fours while Blaine stands and watches him. The act of cleaning up after these animals is subservient enough.

"Honestly, Maynard. What the hell do you want?" He unlocks the next bottom locker to use its floor as a step and hikes up to begin cleaning another one. As he yanks the saxophone case from its locker, he hangs onto the caged door and glares down at his one-man audience.

"Well, since I've figured out _what_ you were doing, I guess I'm still wondering why you're doing it."

"Because I had nothing better to do after a six-hour rehearsal. Why else would I be putting my hands all over the disgusting detritus of one hundred and fifty teenagers?"

"Okay, you know what? Just—just fucking move. You're hanging in front of my locker."

For the first time since Blaine arrived at rehearsal, Kurt allows eye contact. Except it's to hopefully burn holes in his perfectly perfect head. "Fine." He hops down, not blinking or moving his glare. "While you're in there, why don't you clean out any shit you might have lingering."

"You're free to inspect it, _sir_." Blaine unlocks his cage and shoves his horn inside, slamming the door closed. "I have a little self-respect."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I take care of my things. My belongings…my _friendships_."

Kurt wants Blaine to go away. His face is too expressive, his hurt and fury and confusion and disappointment in Kurt entirely too clear. "You know, in light of recent events," he hikes up to the top locker again, drags out crinkled old band schedules and slams the door shut. "I find that really hard to believe."

"I'm sure you do. But if you'd stop pouting long enough to have a conversation with me, you might find it a little easier."

"Pouting? Is that what you think I'm doing?"

"Honestly? Yes. Completely separate from this god damned solo, we have to work together. You don't—"

"Oh, you mean like _together_? Like when you go to Jonesy with something that might possibly affect me a little bit, but can't even bother yourself to discuss it with me first? _That_ kind of together?"

"I didn't go behind your back."

"The _hell_ you didn't!" Kurt is finished with the conversation. With Blaine's nonsense. And with the way his heart skips beats whenever he dares to look into his eyes. It hurts. He hurts. And he knows he's pouting but he doesn't know what else to do to express the betrayal he's been feeling for the last four days.

He opens the next row's bottom and top lockers, hiking up to get at the two clarinet cases inside. When he steps down with them in hand, he feels pressure against the cases and looks, finding Blaine grabbing them from underneath. "I have this, Maynard. Just go."

"I didn't mean to hurt you."

Kurt yanks the cases from Blaine's grip and takes a cursory glance inside the locker, shoving the clarinets back in when he finds nothing. "Then why did you steal my solo?"

"I stole nothing. You still have your solo." Kurt looks away and slams the clarinet locker shut, unlocking the middle locker, groaning when he sees piles of clothes shoved behind the trombone case inside.

"Pigs. These people are pigs."

Blaine chuckles and Kurt bites his lip to stop himself from joining him. He refuses to give Blaine the satisfaction of breaking him with the simple act of empathizing. But, when he feels Blaine's hand on his arm his reaction is so visceral, he can't hide it. He gasps and holds his breath, covering Blaine's hand with his own.

"Kurt…"

"What? Just—what?" He can't look at him. He can't pull his hand away. He can't sink into the hole in the floor because it doesn't exist.

"I'm not Doc. I want to enhance what you do because you do it so fucking beautifully. I'm not here to tear anything down, especially you."

Kurt can't speak. If he does, Blaine will hear his voice crack and then it's over. He can't cry either. Not over this. But the tears prickle at the corners of his eyes anyway, all of the years of being torn down threatening to sweep under his feet and wash him away. The fight leaves him with his exhaled breath and it's all he can do to simply nod.

Blaine pulls his hand from Kurt's arm and picks up his thermos from the floor where he'd dumped it to put his horn away. "You sure you don't want any help?"

"Yes, I’m sure." Kurt feels Blaine move toward the door and doesn't dare to spin to look at him. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. I'll see you tomorrow."

**~~~**~~~**

_Kurt [08-17-11 3:37am]: My pillow. Tide. Bounce. D & G's Light Blue. Oh, and sweat. Loads of sweat._

_Blaine [08-17-11 3:42am]: Any particular ratio of detergent to cologne, good sir?_

_Kurt [08-17-11 3:43am]: A gentleman has to keep a few secrets to himself. Good night, Maynard._

**~~~**~~~**

"Go slow on the water, guys. We don't need a repeat of Trumpet Geysers of 2011."

Rookies. They seem to stay rookies throughout the entire season, never really grasping basic concepts of hydration, over-exertion and oh – common fucking sense.

But, the heat is making health, sanity, comfort and patience virtually impossible, even for the experienced members. Which typically means, vomit is inevitable.

Sometimes, Kurt really hates band.

Seeing Blaine sprawled out on the 35 yard line going over music, he takes one more swallow of water, fishes into his gig bag and heads over to join him.

Blaine is on his belly, propping his chin up with his fist, studiously scanning his flip folder.  And then his charts. And back to his flip folder. His ass jiggles with each switch of folder and his feet kick lazily, flexing his calf muscles with each motion.

Sometimes, Kurt really loves band.

Trying to ignore the view, Kurt joins him on the pavement laying across from him, head to head, propping his chin up with a fist as well. He extends his other hand holding Blaine's 10C mouthpiece.

When Blaine doesn't even blink, Kurt shoves the mouthpiece closer into Blaine's vision and wiggles it.

Blaine looks at the mouthpiece and up at Kurt, pausing until he looks back at the mouthpiece. "Are you breaking up with me?"

Kurt rolls his eyes and smiles. "I’m returning your mouthpiece. Dad and I went out this weekend and I sort of forgot yesterday."

Blaine nods and shifts so he can take it from Kurt's hand finally meeting his eyes when their fingers brush in the pass-off. "You could have used it all season."

"I—thank you?"

Blaine's attention is back on his charts.

"Maynard. You're upset."

Blaine shrugs and sits up, leaning over to pocket the piece. "It's just interesting timing, don’t you think?"

"No. It's—it's not?" Kurt sits up and brushes the front of his shirt off, taking another curious glance at Blaine. "It's just the first weekend Dad and I both had time together, so we went out and—you don't believe me."

Blaine runs a hand through his sweat-damp curls and sighs. "I asked Jonesy to pull me from _Show_."

"What? Why?"

"I don’t—I don't miss anybody from Wapak. Not really. I had friends, but—" Blaine shrugs and draws his belongings into his lap, tapping his flip folder onto the hard cover of his chart notebook in an erratic rhythm, "but I don’t miss any of them."

Kurt waits for him to continue, but he doesn't. He just keeps staring and swallowing and tapping. "Maynard, I'm sorry. I'm not following at all."

"Everyone's mad at me. Mike finally gave in but only because I fed him. Rachel and Santana still haven't talked to me and Finn gives me the hairy eyeball every time I even _face_ the percussion section. And Mercedes and Q act like I stepped in their prized tulip patch or something, just shaking their heads at me like I'm some shamed puppy."

Kurt laughs and Blaine huffs, but chuckles a little too, blushing and he has to absolutely stop doing that. "They're very loyal. We've all been friends for years."

"And you—" Blaine looks down and blushes again.

"I was pouting. I can't promise I'm done either."

"I've been in this band a month. A _month_. And I missed yo—" Blaine stops and looks everywhere but at Kurt.

And Kurt isn't sure he can breathe.

"I missed _all_ of you so much. In just a matter of days. It isn't worth losing—everybody."

"What'd she say? Jonesy?"

Blaine finally looks back to Kurt and shrugs. "She won't let me pull out."

Kurt smiles and looks up to the tower, catching Jonesy staring down at them. He waves and shifts, turning his back to her, not really interested in her being able to read their lips. Because he knows she can. "She knows I'll quit pouting. And she knows we're going to blow the competition away."

"I don't know that the cost is worth it."

Kurt nods, unsurprised and before he can poke and prod and get to the heart of what Blaine's saying – because surely it can't be what he _thinks_ Blaine is saying – they are interrupted by the real business at hand.

"Reset 22. Drill only to the end. Let's hustle!!"

Blaine runs his charts to the sidelines and Kurt follows him, grabbing his arm before they take their spots only a few steps away. "I'm going to risk being rude here…"

"Never stopped you before."

Kurt thinks he might have to kiss the ornery right off of Blaine's face but he is happy to see it back; they work better this way. "Shut up." He bends to grab his cooler for another quick guzzle of water before starting another set in the heat, offering Blaine a pull as well. "A couple weeks ago, you told me your mom makes really amazing lemonade."

"She does." Kurt watches Blaine's throat and neck work as he drinks – and promptly gets caught. But Blaine graciously lets it go and tosses Kurt's thermos to the side with only a little smirk. "Do—do you want to come over? After practice?"

"Would that be okay? I can swing by my house and get some trunks to swim and— maybe we can start knocking this duet out."

"Yes. I'd like—yes."

"Kiki! Maynard! What's the hold-up? Get your asses out here."

"Jesus."

They jog out to their spots and sneak one more glance at each other before Artie begins, Kurt grabbing for one more commitment that this duet is going to fly. "Meet you at the 50?"

Blaine's grin seals the deal. "Meet you at the 50."

**~~~**~~~**

"I'm thinking swimming isn't going to happen." Kurt takes the marimba shoved in his direction and spins it around to push it inside. A pop-up thunderstorm cut rehearsal short by half an hour and it happened so abruptly, everyone got caught in it. As to be expected, protecting the expensive instruments became an immediate priority.

"No. Not tonight." Blaine is right behind him with the chimes, letting out the breath he'd been holding since the first crack of thunder disrupted what had been one of the most productive rehearsals they'd had all summer.

Kurt passes the marimba off to a band parent and turns to Blaine who is white as a ghost. "You okay?"

"N-no."

"At least the girls stopped screaming like dying banshies." When Blaine barely nods, Kurt rubs his soaking wet arm with his hand and steps back out to get a feel for how big the storm is. "Maynard, c'mere. There's blue sky peeking out already. Maybe we'll get a rainbow."

"I'll take your word for it." Blaine yanks Kurt back inside, shutting the metal doors behind them.

"Maynard, the sn—" Kurt chuckles and opens the door again, letting in the snare drummer who Blaine almost slammed into the door.

"Sorry, dude." The rookie glares at Blaine and Kurt glares harder making the little shit move into the percussion room with more speed than he's moved all season. "You're just like my mother. The tornado sirens are blaring and she's on the front porch looking for funnel clouds."

"Okay, no. If the sirens are blaring, I’m in the house. Storm chasing is Dad's job."

"Band, atten-hut!"

"HUT!"

"You have two options. Group up and practice or get the hell out. If you choose option A – grouping up and practicing – Beaman and I will help you and love you forever. If you choose option B and leave, you get two extra laps tomorrow morning. Option A, you outlast the storm. Option B, you might drown and I ain't comin' to your funeral."

"So, if you're smart, you'll pick option…???" Beaman points to the dripping wet band for an answer.

"A!"

"Excellent choice. You can spread to the auditorium, practice rooms with the doors cracked – MINIMUM OF THREE PEOPLE IN PRACTICE ROOMS AT ALL TIMES, Mr. Puckerman – the hall way and alcoves up to the gates and of course, you can spread out in here. You have 25 minutes."

"Awesome! Threesomes are a go! Who's in?"

A crack of thunder splits through Puck's idiocy and Blaine jumps, knocking backward into Kurt who surreptitiously rubs a hand up and down his back, leaning up to whisper in his ears. "It'll be over soon. Let's grab Snix and go to the back hall – it's further into the building."

Blaine leans back into Kurt's touch and sighs. "You don't have to do this."

"We have to practice, and that's a good spot without windows or anything." Kurt nudges Blaine's shoulder to get him to turn and look at him.

His eyes are wide and darting everywhere and he's simply adorable, curls dangling on his forehead, dripping wet spots onto his shirt. He looks about five years old. "No one needs to know – unless you jump out of your shoes again and then I'm going to have some explaining to do."

Santana pulls herself from Brittany and joins Kurt and Blaine, pouting that rehearsal didn't get cancelled.

"Let's go to the back hall – where we eat."

"Yeah, okay. Maynard, you alright? You look like your mom just walked in on you with Kiki's dick in your mouth."

"I—wh—I just—" Blaine shoots a look at Kurt who is pushing Santana toward the hallway door.

"Ignore her when she gets like this. The more you stutter, the more ammunition she thinks she has."

"I KNEW it! You _want_ Kiki's dick in your mouth!"

Kurt tugs on her ponytail and slips a foot between her legs to trip her next step. "Do you ever want your feet rubbed again?"

"Alright, alright. Damn. I think my gaybies doth protest too much."

"I think our 3rd trumpet doth _speaketh_ too much." They get to the alcove and slide down the wall to sit in their wet clothes and wait out the storm.

"Start with the band entrance in _Show_ – we'll have a nice trio going."

So they do. And they _do_. And Kurt decides that maybe his senior year isn't going to be so bad after all.


	13. Chapter Twelve

"I meant to ask, how long were you at school yesterday?"

Blaine is digging in the refrigerator for food, pulling out anything that looks remotely appetizing. When he lifts a red lid off a plastic container and grimaces, he finally gives up and moves to the freezer, hoping Kurt isn't terribly hungry because it's not looking good.

"Until seven. I can't believe the shit that collects in people's lockers in only a few weeks. Can you imagine it by the end of the season?"

"I'd rather not, thanks. Want to grill up some burgers?"

"Sure, but you really don't have to feed me." Kurt's been slowly touring Blaine's kitchen, dragging his fingers across the high-end appliances, positively _drooling_ over the perfection of it all. Cherry wood cabinetry, granite countertops, 5-burner stove – complete with indoor grill-top – stainless steel, of course – a full island with washing sink and freezer drawer. When he bites his bottom lip and moans in pure lust over the block of Wüstof knives on the counter, Blaine almost drops a bag of peas.

"I—I'm not doing all the work; you're helping me." Blaine slaps a package of patties onto the counter jolting Kurt from his coveting with a jump and a squeal. "Seems you sort of want to get your hands all over this kitchen."

"Am I that transparent?"

"At least at the moment."

Kurt blushes and sits on a bar stool, folding his hands in his lap. "I'm sorry – I've just always dreamed of a kitchen like this."

"Well, here it is. Now, figure out some good toppings."

Kurt grins and jumps up to the refrigerator, finding some bleu cheese and plucks through the vegetable drawer for zucchini and peppers to grill up. When he spins back around with an armload and happy smile, Blaine shakes his head. "Should I just sit this one out and let you cook?"

"N—No. I'm—oh my god, I'm being a presumptuous dick. These just looked good and fresh and they'd be really delicious grilled and—" He sits back on his stool and rests his chin on his hand, avoiding looking at Blaine. "Do you have onions to caramelize? That'd be divine with the bleu cheese."

Kurt's biting his lip again and fidgety and—

"That does sound amazing." Blaine tilts his head and pats at Kurt's knee to get his full attention, which he just can't quite grasp. "Hey. What's going on? I've never seen you nervous before. I'm the one that should be having aftershocks from the storm."

"I'm sorry. I'm sort of out of my element here. It's all so lush and elegant. And you're…just Maynard and…I'm all out of balance."

"That's funny because I'd imagine elegant surroundings to be _exactly_ your element."

Kurt stops fussing with the stickers on the peppers and looks to Blaine who instantly flushes and turns to the pantry to dig for onions. "I—I mean, you're quite graceful and eleg—" He huffs and stands, adding the bag of onions to their growing pile of food. "Just—what do you need me to do? I'm starving."

Now he has Kurt's full attention – naturally now that his mouth has tumbled out more than his heart should allow. He's flushed and smiling like he caught Blaine in a secret. Because he sort of did.

When Kurt finally stands and bends to open a drawer to find pans, Blaine breathes again – thank goodness for the lure of a sexy kitchen to save the day. "You can…let's see. Oh, we might want to thaw the meat or I see huge dental bills in our future."

"Got it." He pulls a plate from the cabinet and nods when Kurt points to the knives for permission to use to cut the vegies.

As soon as the chef's knife slides into the flesh of the red pepper, a peace falls over the kitchen as though Kurt's ease is all it takes for the both of them. It's as though he belongs in this kitchen and Blaine can't stop staring, watching his bicep flex with each downward motion of the knife, the way his fingers grip the handle and base of the blade, how that infernal flip of hair bops around on his forehead like a dangling carrot tempting a hungry rabbit.

"Are you going to help or just stare at me?"

Without an answer to offer, Blaine turns and readies the beef to thaw in the microwave. He misses Kurt's smirk and busies himself with the onions, grateful that they've fallen into a companionable give-and-take in what proves to be a very delicious meal complete with hilarious conversation.

"I kid you not. The briefs _and_ the panties were all tangled together – both dirty, mind – shoved into the back corner of the locker. There aren't enough latex gloves to have protected me from that mess."

"Was it a sousa, because I could so see Puck—"

"No! That's the thing, it was a clarinet locker! Who knew they were the kinky ones!?" Kurt runs his finger through the dregs of the melted cheese on his plate and sucks his finger into his mouth.

And Blaine gulps, standing so quickly Kurt has to reach out to make sure he doesn't fall over. He recovers and starts gathering their plates. "Well, I mean, underwear in and of itself isn't kinky. Unless—"

"Stop. Why would anyone need to have underwear in their band locker? I can see bringing extra clothes in a _bag_ for changing – we all do it, but why does your—no. And tangled? What the fuck were they _doing?_ "

"I—I have no idea. Last I checked, the tangling portion sort of works better once underwear isn't part of the picture."

"Rumor has it. So, you know, if you're looking for some extra clothes with all sorts of DNA all over it, you can check that box right outside the instrument room. The panties were turquoise." Kurt's eyes trail up and down Blaine's body in mock judgment. "Although that color might not work for you."

"Thanks, but," Blaine grabs  the box of cookies Kurt brought with him, inhaling the cinnamon scent with a smile, "I'm thinking if any of my own clothes are in there, I'll just leave them to rot."

"Smart plan. The smell—oh my god. I went home and took the longest lavender bath of my life. I'm probably still pruned." Kurt looks at his fingertips and chuckles and Blaine has to shake his head out of the image of Kurt soaking in a tub. Lavender scented. Probably with bubbles. And candlelight.

_Jesus._

"Here. Smell these – it'll cleanse your palate." Kurt breathes the cookies in and Blaine doesn't watch his eyes flutter closed. He does not. "I really should have stayed to help."

"Why? It was _my_ punishment."

"Because of me."

"I'm completely responsible for my own actions, Maynard. I walked out of a rehearsal. At _bandcamp._ I'm lucky she didn't just yank the solo from me."

"I still feel partially responsible."

"You're not. That was all me." Kurt plucks a cookie from the box and before he can get it to his mouth, Blaine stops him.

"Do you—we can practice better if—wanna go up to my room? Take these up?" Blaine tries not to look too nervous or eager because he's not expecting anything other than rehearsal and laughter and The Power of Friendship and The Heart of the Cards and oh god he's in so much trouble, he's quoting _Yu Gi Oh_ in his head. He really hopes inviting Kurt to his room isn't the dumbest thing he's done in the past 24 hours. His dumb quotient is pretty filled up as it is.

"Oh. Sure." Kurt pops the cookie in his mouth and grabs the box, and after a pit stop in the formal living room where Kurt catches a peek of a baby grand piano, asking if Blaine plays and smiling entirely too broadly when he answers in the affirmative, they are settled in Blaine's room. They bumble around trying to figure out who is going to sit where, horns occasionally clanking and mumbling apologies and finally Blaine puts his hands on Kurt's shoulders to make him sit at the foot of the bed.

He takes a seat at his desk and turns toward him, stealing a cookie, pulling it back to look at it again once he tastes it. "Almonds?"

"Yes. And cinnamon, ginger, cloves, nutmeg. I—I make up cookie recipes when I'm upset."

"Yeah, I can imagine seeing everyone's dirty underwear would be upsetting."

"Except I made them this weekend. After I gave up on my plot to permanently lodge your 10C in your left ear."

"Kiki..."

"I added almonds so Finn wouldn't eat them. Otherwise, they'd be gone already." Kurt finishes his cookie and hovers his hand over the box before deciding against taking another one.

"So, you hate-made the cookies, but you're still sharing them with the target of your hate?"

" _All_ of my anger wasn't directed at you. Eventually. Besides if I eat the entire batch, my face will break out from all of the butter."

"So, it's really a complexion intervention that made you so generous?"

"Yes. And you seem like someone who would appreciate a mouthful of nuts."

Blaine snaps his head up and has to bite his lip to fight back a laugh – because Kurt is about to explode with effort not to crack a smile, a laugh, a giggle. But Kurt erupts with a very indelicate snerk anyway, and Blaine lets his pent-up laugh break free taking any leftover tension between them with it. It feels like a piñata breaking, rainbow-colored candies falling all around the room.

After laughing entirely too long at such an incredibly lame and juvenile joke, Blaine wipes the tears from the corner of his eyes. "You really wanted to play the straight man with that, didn't you?"

"You just called _me_ the straight man?"

And the giggles start all over again, Kurt finally falling back onto Blaine's bed, trying to catch his breath. And Blaine tries not to think about the new view.

"Maynard, can I ask you a question? About—about last week?"

"Of course."

"Were—I mean, maybe it was just me, but weren't things going well? Between us? I thought we were finding a nice groove."

Kurt's still on his back staring at the ceiling and Blaine has to get up and move from his desk to sit at the head of the bed where he's not staring right into Kurt's laid out crotch. Of course, as he settles, Kurt's head is resting right next to his bare knees and he could reach down and run his fingers through that gorgeous, lush hair and there is simply nothing comfortable about this moment.

Except when he focuses and lets Kurt's words soak in – they feel like honey and cinnamon – smooth and sweet and a little spicy. It's _the two of us_ all over again and Blaine's heart skips a beat before he finds words to answer, hoping his voice doesn't wobble when he speaks.

"We were. I felt it too." Blaine crawls to the foot of the bed, grabbing the box of cookies and bringing it onto the bed with them. Because his voice so totally wobbled.

Kurt rolls to his belly and shimmies up toward the pillows, tracing the sham's plaid design with a finger and Blaine wishes he was a painter so he could spend the entirety of a day painting each individual eyelash fanning out on Kurt's cheeks. "It is nice to have someone that _gets it_ , isn't it?"

"Yeah. It is." Digging back into the box, Blaine pulls out two cookies and hands one to Kurt. "Acne, be damned."

Kurt takes it with a smile, talking around the bite he takes. "That makes me wonder even more – if you thought our friendship was so important, why didn't you at least _talk_ to me about _Show?_ "

When Kurt sits up, Blaine sighs in relief because the half-laying, half-sitting, all on a bed _thing_ is about to do him in.

Kurt continues with a shrug. "I can't say I still wouldn't have been upset, but it wouldn't have been a public humiliation."

"I didn't mean—god. I didn't want to humiliate you. Or upset you. Or anyone. I just—it happened so fast and—"

"When _did_ it happen? We had breaks, but there's just not a lot of free time for—"

"Wednesday. You played it in rehearsal that morning and just like in the audition, you took my breath away. But something was missing. Not with your part, but with the arrangement. It felt – hollow. In fact, the richness of your playing is what brought it out to me."

"Okay, stop. Now you're just getting sycophantic."

"No! I'm—no. That's not it. I just – I want you to understand that it really had _nothing_ to do with you."

"I guess I’m saying maybe it should have."

Blaine stops picking crumbs off of his duvet and sighs. "Yes. My follow-through should have included you."

"So, what? You just went and volunteered to fill in the blanks? That's pretty arrogant, don't you think?"

"Yeah, that would have been arrogant, but that's not what happened. I started listening to the original again and the lead guitar jumped out at me. _That's_ what was missing. That extra flair, you know? So, I went to Jonesy to see if we were going to be having a guitar player in pit once we got back to school rehearsals. It's Queen. It's a rock show. Guitar only makes sense."

"Except none of the guitar players at our school are any good, and the few that are have such shit attitudes that—"

"That's exactly what she said. You tried one a couple years ago?"

"Yeah. Freshman year - Beatles show. By the second competition, we were all trying to learn how to do a séance to bring George Harrison back from the dead."

"Okay, that? Would have been amazing."

"Except that Q's mom confiscated her Ouija board because it was _of the devil_ , and Santana's cornet didn't work as a spirit trumpet – we think because the second valve had been stuck since 8th grade – and Finn's left eye and right kneecap would twitch whenever he'd get close to a trance. He looked like a handicapped dog chasing a drunk squirrel. Trances don't work when everyone's laughing."

Blaine blinks twice and finally busts out laughing again because he truly cannot tell if Kurt's serious or not. When Kurt grins and steals another cookie, taking a dramatic bite, Blaine flops over to his side, resting his head on his fist. "We never had that much fun at Wapak."

"That's because Wapak—"

"Sucks. I know. I know."

Kurt falls next to him, mirroring his position and even though it's not dark and the room doesn't smell of gym sock, it's reminiscent of bandcamp. Blaine wishes he could keep Kurt here forever. It would make the void in the house disappear.

"So, since bringing George back didn't work, we were stuck with Stoner Brett and the guy was—well, we called him Stoner Brett for a reason."

"Although, from what I gather, The Beatles weren't always running on all cylinders either."

"Yes, but they _started_ with talent."

"Excellent point. So thanks to Stoner Brett, she told me that we probably wouldn't have guitar and asked why and one thing led to another and I'm playing for her what I think might work and then it's Thursday's rehearsal and you were there for the rest."

"So, you didn't know she was going to call on you to do it?"

"She said we _might_ try it with the full band back-up and that was the end of our discussion. I honestly thought I'd never hear another word about it. She didn't seem impressed."

Blaine waits while Kurt considers the story. It's not that Kurt doesn't believe him, he doesn't think, it's just that spending days upon days angry at someone and then hearing their side of the story takes time to process. So Blaine waits. Because he wants more moments like these. With gut-busting laughter and fanned eyelashes and rainbow-candied giggles and almond spice cookies.

"You hit a really raw nerve."

"I know. Now I know – I didn't realize then."

"Snix talk to you?"

"Mike. He's—he's pretty observant. Soaks up people like a sponge."

"Yeah, he does. He probably knows me better than most, yet we've never been close."

"I'm sorry someone like Doc made you feel anything less than how amazing you are. And I'm even more sorry I added to that."

Kurt looks down and blinks back a few tears that Blaine decides not to point out. "He was awful. And I thought I was over it, but—"

"You _do_ know you're amazing right? His awful – my awful – doesn't take any of that away."

Kurt looks up to Blaine and huffs in disbelief. "I treated you like shit."

"I came in with a really bad attitude. It doesn't change the fact that—"

"You're pretty amazing, too."

And with that, all the tension is back – a delicious tension that lingers between them while Blaine's brain scrambles to pick up the pieces of his normally very-put-together self. With a thick swallow, he chickens out and goes for the team play. "This is going to kick ass, this song. This show. Us, together.

Blaine thinks Kurt's expression falls a little, but he's not going to allow himself to believe it. Kurt's going for the team play, too – because it's the right thing to do. He's sure of it. "Not if we don’t practice."

"Right. Practice. After one more cookie."

**~~~**~~~**

_Blaine [08-18-11 3:11am]: I am the stupidest kind of idiot that ever stupided._

_Mike [08-18-11 3:15am]: I could have told you that. What'd you do now? Rewrite the show so there's a Miles Davis feature in it too?_

_Blaine [08-18-11 3:16am]: I knew I should have held you under water longer the other day._

_Mike [08-18-11 3:17am]: Then you'd have no one to talk to at 3am._

_Blaine [08-18-11 3:18am]: I could always text Nini._

_Mike [08-18-11 3:18am]: If you don’t mind spending time describing The Shire in great detail when you could be sleeping._

_Blaine [08-18-11 3:19am]: I'm sitting here, at 3am, with an open notebook contemplating writing poetry. I hate poetry, Mike._

_Mike [08-18-11 3:20am]: Aw, if you want to tell me you love me, you could just text it to me._

_Blaine [08-18-11 3:20am]: Yep. Should have drowned your ass._

_Mike [08-18-11 3:21am]: I take it you and Kiki kissed and made up._

_Blaine [08-18-11 3:22am]: No kissing. But, it was close._

_Mike [08-18-11 3:22am]: I told you he was feeling it too._

_Blaine [08-18-11 3:23am]: I don't know. I mean, I think he is, but. This would be bad. And dumb. And did you know his eyes aren't really completely blue? They have green in them and yellow flecks and they change color depending on the light and stuff._

_Mike [08-18-11 3:24am]: Jesus, you're a mess. Poetry?_

_Blaine [08-18-11 3:25am]: Poetry. So far, I only have 'your eyes' down._

_Mike [08-18-11 3:26am]: Go to bed, Maynard. Let your wet dreams take care of it._

_Blaine [08-18-11 3:28am]: I don't even know what to say to that._

_Mike [08-18-11 3:28am]: Say goodnight, Maynard._

_Blaine [08-18-11 3:29]: Goodnight, Maynard._


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a link in the text for this chapter sending you to a youtube videos of The Ohio State University Marching Band's pregame show, which is referenced here. It will come up again in later chapters as well. Take a gander if you're curious and unfamiliar with their traditions.

_Kurt [08-18-11 3:11am]: What am I going to doooooo?_

_Santana [08-18-11 3:14am]: Admit this is a wrong number and let me go back to sleep._

_Kurt [08-18-11 3:15am]: The bathroom attached to his bedroom smells like raspberries._

_Santana [08-18-11 3:16am]: Oh shit, Kiki. You're so fucking gone._

_Kurt [08-18-11 3:16am]: What am I going to doooooo?_

_Santana [08-18-11 3:17am]: Admit this is a wrong number and let me go back to sleep._

_Kurt [08-18-11 3:18am]: Let me make up our missed sleepover tomorrow night. I need your opinion on my first-day-of-school outfit anyway._

_Santana [08-18-11 3:19am]: If you're going to spend the entire time describing the shape of his lips or the exact shade of his hair or, oh god I'll kill you, the multi-layered color of his eyes, I'm never having a sleepover with you again._

_Kurt [08-18-11 3:21am]: I'll rub your feet all night long._

_Santana [08-18-11 3:22am]: Wait. You still plan out your first-day-of-school outfit? Didn't we outgrow that in 4 th grade?_

_Kurt [08-18-11 3:24am]: I will not rub your feet all night long. And his eyes are amber brown and forest green with flecks of golden yellow, just so you know._

_Santana [08-18-11 3:25am]: Honestly, I can't Friday. Nini's folks are out of town. I'm getting me some girl time on._

_Kurt [08-18-11 3:26am]: Lucky bitch. I'm going to die a virgin._

_Santana [08-18-11 3:28am]: Remind me to show you this at the end of marching season. I guarantee you by state finals – your little kiki is going to be the happiest kiki this side of the equator._

_Kurt [08-18-11 3:29am]: I object to the word 'little.'_

_Santana [08-18-11 3:30am]: Your enormously gargantuan COCK is going to be the happiest COCK this side of the equator._

_Kurt [08-18-11 3:31am]: Much better. And you're also full of shit. And I just dropped my phone on my face, so I need to go to sleep._

_Santana [08-18-11 3:32am]: Someday I'll learn to turn my phone off at night._

_Kurt [08-18-11 3:33am]: Speaking of – we haven't had any drunk Rachel texts in awhile. Should we worry?_

_Santana [08-18-11 3:34am]: About Yentl? I'll let you take that burden, sweets. G'night._

_Kurt [08-18-11 3:35am]: Raasssssppppberries, Snix._

_Santana [08-18-11 3:36am]: With cream._

**~~~**~~~**

Kurt sips his iced coffee and drags a finger across the cedar chest-of-drawers sitting with other beautiful wooden pieces on the long paved driveway. As he looks around, he daydreams of one day filling his own apartment with trifles and treasures from estate sales such as this – from flea markets and antique stores, someone else's history helping to color his today.

But today, he's here for clothes. Since school is about to begin he can shed the gawd-awful gym shorts and ankle socks that have clothed his late summer days and break out the good stuff. He learned early on that if he is going to be labeled anyway, he might as well make sure the label options are good ones.

_You know him – Coiffed Hair; Great ~~Weird~~ Clothes. _

_That Guy With the Brooch I Wish I Had The Balls To Wear._

_The Mechanic's Son Who Dresses Like a Model_ are far superior to the ones he has been assigned most of his life.

And, since he _is_ a mechanic's son who makes his money from his own dad answering phones and making appointments in the shop, couture shopping is not an option. Sewing his own pieces and bargain hunting like this are viable, delightful ones.

And today's estate sale is one that, while morbid in theory, he's been waiting for. Old Lady Pritchard flit her money around town for as long as Kurt can remember – his mother even complained about the woman. She was an ever-present volunteer at pointless non-profits around town, her picture all over the lifestyle section of _The Lima News_. Her most annoying, famous and useless organizations were the various up-starts that tried to get the public library to stop circulating the ever-popular "banned books." Oh, and _Maxim Magazine_ , of all titles.

The old bitty finally kicked the bucket a few short months after her husband, and the family wants to dump their stuff, take the money and run. Kurt wants to finger through the family belongings, get some amazing pieces for school and run. The Pritchards might not have had manners, but they had style. And Kurt is hoping to cash in.

He checks his phone for the time, and makes his way toward the front porch, slowing to run his fingers through the beaded fringe on a coral-colored vintage lampshade.

"Amazing how something can be gaudy, yet beautiful at the same time, isn't it?"

Kurt snaps up at the voice and breaks out in a grin much wider than the early hour of the morning should allow. "Maynard! What are youdoing here?"

"Scraping at the crumbs of Lima's richest – just like you, I'd assume."

"So, you do estate sales?"

"Yeah, Mom used to take me to a few in Columbus and Dayton. Then Dad found out, had a fit we were _stealing from the dead_ and that ended that."

"He does know you pay for your purchases, right?"

"It's second-hand. He doesn't care."

"Ah, that just means there's history to it. That automatically increases its value."

Kurt steps into the line and judges how many people are ahead of them, hoping he's timed it just right – early enough for quality items to be left, but late enough that they'll start allowing a bit of haggling.

"Come on – my place in line is perfect." He tosses the remainder of his coffee into a cardboard bin. "So, what are you shopping for?"

"Mmm, odds and ends. Mom and I collect a few things and—"

"Those cool robots you have in your room – you get them at sales like this?"

"A couple of them, yeah. We go to resale stores in Columbus too."

"Ooh, we'll have to go together one day." Kurt sucks in a breath at his quick future plans and fumbles for his phone to check the time again. "I mean—now that I know you like this sort of thing too and—"

Blaine smiles, warm and easy. "We really should. It's not as much fun with Mom anymore. She's always digging around for weird retro clothes and purses."

"Yeah, but _clothes_ —"

"Yes, clothes. It's just that my boobs are too small for vintage dresses."

"Ah. Yes. Sizing can be complicated."

"Mmmm…my goal lately is to find a good, working turntable. The ones you can buy now are all focused on converting everything to digital. You lose that scratchy, moldy basement sound."

Kurt steps up to the door and takes two numbers with a tiny courtesy, handing one to Blaine. "Moldy basements have sounds? That you can actually hear on records?"

"Oh, shut up – they lose the atmosphere of it all. I like the scratches and skips. Cooper and I had a Mott the Hoople record that we knew right where it'd skip – we still sing it into the song every time. Even when we're listening to the CD in the car."

"Numbers 25 – 30, you may go in. Please respect the sold signs, play nicely and enjoy your shopping."

"Oooh, here we go." Kurt points to the stairs. "I'm going straight up to the bedroom."

"Okay. I'll meet you up there. Leave me a few things."

Kurt makes his way upstairs trying to focus on the job at hand, not how his entire body has been thrumming since he heard Blaine's voice call for him in the front yard. He has never been able to get anyone to join him on these scavenger hunts – even Tina who is the most eclectically dressed of his friends. And to think that Blaine seeks these sorts of sales out and that maybe they could take a trip to Columbus where all the better sales are and—

"McQueen! Oh my god." Kurt's eyes dart from side to side before he slips to the armoire, drawers pulled out in stair-step fashion displaying various accessories neatly tucked in its drawers. He lifts a blue and ivory silk scarf and sighs, the skull pattern just obscure enough to remain classy – not biker. He gathers it and places it around his neck and moans, blushing when another shopper glances his way.

He busies himself with the contents of the armoire, the drawers, the few vests and shirts hanging from the rod, and has to bite back squeals of delight more than once. Just as he plucks one final vest from the cabinet, lost in the bliss of it all, he feels a warm hand on his arm and jumps.

"Find anything?"

"Oh! Yes. I—" Kurt yanks the scarf from his neck and drapes it over his arm with his other choices and grins at Blaine, checking out the pale yellow glass pitcher he's carrying. "I'm afraid I might not have left you much. There are some ties and things over there. I haven't looked through them yet."

"I might have already hit my budget anyway." Blaine lifts the pitcher a little, and smiles sheepishly.

"It's pretty – for your mom?"

"Yeah. She collects these." He stops and rubs his hand over the back of his neck. "I've wanted to replace one that broke before we moved."

"Did you break it?"

"No. I—" Blaine stops and huffs. "You don't want to hear this story. It's just family bullshit."

Blaine can't look Kurt in the eye, scanning absent-mindedly over the contents of the armoire where they're standing.

Kurt does want to hear the story. He wants to know everything – if Blaine's up for sharing. So, he tugs Blaine back away from the flow of shopper traffic and gingerly takes the pitcher from Blaine's grasp, holding it up to the light. "It really is beautiful."

"Mom—this is one of the things she collects – it's Vaseline glass. And she had this pitcher – or one close to it. Every summer it was always in our fridge full of her lemonade. It just – it's was a fixture, you know?"

"That's because hers is the best."

"Right. So, we were packing up to move and she had just wrapped it up and Dad walks in. _Where do you think you're taking that?_ Like he'd even been a part of helping us at all anyway."

Kurt hands him the pitcher back and he wants – he wants to make that wrinkle between Blaine's eyebrows to go away. "I'm sorry."

"He's consistent. So, they fought. And I left the kitchen and then I heard it shatter. Mom swears it was an accident and Dad stormed out yapping about her taking everything and he wouldn't have anything to entertain with and—"

"He doesn't seem like a guy who does much entertaining…"

"He's not. And – mom loved it. And every time I've poured lemonade from Tupperware this summer I just get more irritated. So—"

"She's gonna be thrilled, Blaine."

"I hope so. She's starting to smile more again, so maybe the timing is right." Blaine shrugs and tucks the pitcher up under his arm looking over Kurt's selections. "I like the scarf. Brings out your eyes."

"I—yes. Thank you." Kurt sighs in relief that the moment has shifted. "It's _McQueen_. Mr. Pritchard had some taste for an old guy."

"How much?"

"Um…god, I didn't even look." He scrabbles around to find the tag and squeaks. "Oh my god, it's only $20. I bet I can talk them down to $15."

"You're buying lunch."

"Lun—do. Do you want to—after we're done?"

Blaine scurries over to the dresser where ties are displayed, but the pink flushing his cheeks is still clear in the reflection of the mirror he's facing. "I'm sorry. I sort of thought of it downstairs and made it so without asking you."

"Lunch sounds nice. Finn shoved a piece of burnt toast into my hands before I took off and it's not quite making it." Kurt joins Blaine at the dresser and watches him in the mirror instead of investigating the ties. His eternally long eyelashes and slightly parted lips are much more interesting.

"How thoughtful of him."

"Mmmm…I'm going to go check for hats." Kurt leans in, spotting a brooch on the top of the dresser, but lingers there even though he decides it's too gaudy – even for him. Blaine smells like Saturday morning – fresh and bright, waiting to play and laugh. "I'll see you downstairs."

He clears his throat and avoids Blaine's stunned stare in the mirror. He hadn't meant that to be raspy and weird but Blaine is messing with his head. He looks amazing – tanned and dressed with a little more care than he bothers for rehearsals. He likes the things Kurt likes and laughs at the things Kurt laughs at and he loves his mother. And when he blushes – oh god, when he blushes – and Kurt has simply lost his fool mind.

This meeting was a coincidence and they'll go to lunch and part to spend the last weekend of summer with their families and marching season will kick off full force and come October no one will even remember their own names, no less each other's and all will go back to status quo.

Except he's not sure he remembers what status quo even is anymore. All he sees is Blaine. On the field. Blaine. And the duet. Blaine. Guzzling water from his thermos. Hunched over French homework – does he take French? – Blaine. Curled up next to him snoring gently as he tries to find sleep at bandcamp. In the car driving to Columbus singing old songs Kurt's never heard of – on a trip they've only talked about today, but probably will never take. Blaine. Blaine. Blaine.

"Young man. Young man? That'll be $95 dollars, please."

"Oh! Yes. I'm sorry. Daydreaming." Kurt hands the attendant his money and sighs.

_I wonder if Blaine will like that Varvatos vest I found?_

**~~~**~~~**

"I cannot believe how much food is here."

"I told you." Kurt inspects Blaine's plate as he joins him at the table, the buffet most likely picked clean now that he's gone through. His plate – plates, more accurately – are virtually toppling over with food. Once Blaine picks up a chicken thigh, he unearths a slice of roast beef swimming in au jus. "You're going to make yourself sick."

"How many trips are you planning on taking up there?"

"Two." Kurt tilts his head and contemplates his decision to forego the chicken this time. "Maybe three."

"See, I'll go back for dessert. You're going to end up shoving more in your mouth than I am. Guaranteed." With that, Blaine takes a huge bite of chicken, closing his eyes and sighing around the salty, crunchy skin. "Oh my god."

Instead of starting on his gravy-drowned pork chop, Kurt sticks a fork into one of Blaine's chicken pieces and twists it to yank off a huge piece.

"Only child. No one ever taught me to share." He shoves the chicken into his mouth and reacts just like Blaine did, only he lifts a finger to hold his place in the conversation and winds his way back up to the buffet for a new plate and a few pieces of chicken.

The meal continues this way, each offering bites of goodies from their own plates and laughing when the receiver gets up to get his own helping of the new taste sensation, accumulating more plates than they have table space. Kurt shoves one more forkful of pork chop into his mouth, tosses his fork on his plate and leans back, feeling like a bloated whale. "Break time."

"God yes. This reminds me of Thanksgiving, but without the drama."

"Or football."

"Or dishes."

"Or the aunts who smell like mothballs and basements and insist on kissing you."

Blaine barks a laugh and picks at his roll – okay, it's his third roll – dragging it through the last schmear of butter on his plate. "You have some interesting aunts and uncles. Vampire impersonators, basement dwellers. Remind me to avoid extended family functions at the Hummel household."

"If I could avoid them, I would. All they want to know is if—"

"You've found a sweet girl yet."

"Yes!" Kurt grins because Blaine knows. He _knows._

"And then Uncle Patsy – yeah, I know – I have no idea what his real name is – Uncle Patsy has to take me out and toss a football so I can _muscle up_ for the babes."

"Let's run away after marching season. Avoid this whole mess."

"Mmm. Where are we headed?"

Kurt's attention is drawn away from their fantastical adventure when a child walks by their table with a slice of cheesecake bigger than his head. "Nowhere until I get cheesecake. What do you want? I'll grab something for both of us."

"I don't care. Not cheesecake, so we can share."

"Who said I'm sharing my cheesecake?" Blaine simply smiles and Kurt's useless to fight. Of course he's sharing his cheesecake.

When he returns with apple pie and cheesecake, their plates have been cleared and Blaine is sitting waiting on him with a fork in each hand, ready to dive in. He is the worst kind of adorable that ever was.

Kurt settles in and stabs Blaine with his fork when he dives into Kurt's cheesecake. "I get the first bite – eat your pie."

"Bossy." Blaine goes for his pie and closes his eyes in pleasure. Kurt decides he'd probably better never eat with this guy again. It's dangerous.

"So, since we really can't _run away_ after marching season – what about after high school? Where are you headed?"

"Probably OSU? I just know I want out. I'm applying there, Otterbein, Capital, Cinci."

"That's not very _out_ – you don't want to leave Ohio?"

"I… never considered it? Just so I get away from the shit storm of my parents, I really don't care. Why? Where are you going?"

"I want to go to Ohio State for two years – experience the marching band should I make it – and then transfer to NYU or if the stars align, Julliard."

"Performance?"

"Yeah. I figure the job opportunities are there in New York and who knows? I might change my mind and go with fashion design. I'd be in the right spot."

"But OSU first?"

"Yeah. I really, _really_ want to march there. Don't you?"

"God, yes. I've been going to games since I remember. I enjoy football, but don't talk to me during pre-game and half-time."

"I've only been to a few, but you never forget. [Ramp? And Script Ohio?](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WdWolVsKlAI) And just –that _stadium_ is—"

"I know. Can you imagine performing there?"

"We're going to this year. Didn't you see the schedule?"

"What? When? We, as in McKinley?"

"Yeah, Buckeye Invitational." Kurt puts down his fork and slips into section leader. "Did you not get the schedule at the beginning of rehearsals, _Maynard_?"

"I did. I saw that, but didn't know what it was. We perform at Ohio Stadium? Like, on the field? Ohio Stadium?"

"Yes. We don't get to enter on the ramp – talk about holy ground – but we exit that way. Then, OSU's marching band plays when the whole competition is over – ramp, script, a half-time show. It's going to be amazing."

"Have you done this before?"

"I went with Jonesy last year to scope it out and see if it was something we wanted to try to get into. Two hundred bands audition. Only thirty-five get in."

"And we got – damn, you guys do have an amazing reputation."

"You guys? Maynard – _WE_ have an amazing reputation. You're one of us. You're carrying the torch right along with us."

"Oh god. Your solo."

"Our duet."

"Your _solo_. I'm just extra. Oh my god." Blaine takes a slow forkful into his mouth, clearly deep in thought. "Maybe…maybe Dad would actually come to something."

"It'd be worth an invite. He's welcome to ride with my dad and Carole."

"No. You don't—no. Thank you, though. He's an island. Needs no one."

"Ah. Well. The offer stands."

Kurt keeps eating, stealing bites from Blaine's pie, amused at the dreamy expression on Blaine's face. For an Ohioan – a marching band kid in Ohio – playing at Ohio Stadium is Mecca. "How many people show up?"

"Well, nothing like football Saturdays. Probably a couple thousand. All those bands and their families, people who've been before and just love it. It's a cheap afternoon of good music, you know?"

"Yeah." Blaine sits back, letting the ice cream melt over his pie, no longer caring about dessert. "We're going to kill it."

"Yeah, we are. Grand Champions. Ohio Stadium."

"Then State will be a breeze."

"Walk in the park." Kurt forks his final piece of cheesecake and smiles, a little smug. A lot excited.

"We need to practice."

"I thought you'd never ask."


	15. Chapter Fourteen

Blaine's head is one big blob of fog. The fog's name is _Kurt_ and no matter what he does, he can't shake it. The estate sale just about did him in, not only in meeting him there and realizing they had even more in common, but in the way Kurt simply _is._ He finds it hard to believe Kurt doesn't realize what he's doing and yet, when Blaine dares to look closer after he says things like, "I'll see you downstairs," with the rasp of a well-spent man, or wraps his lips around a forkful of creamy, luscious cheesecake and moans so deep it rattles in both of their chests, or when he plays – when he _plays_ – so milky and smooth and effortless and how his phrases sail through the air and wrap right around Blaine's heart – to the point he forgets to come in on his cue – it seems Kurt truly has no idea the effect he's having on him.

Come to think of it, his brain isn't a fog at all; the images are crystal clear.

Blaine's head is one big blob of Kurt lately.

And, now it is the first day of school so Kurt-blobs-for-brains are probably not going to do him any good.

He's the new kid. He's nervous. Sure, Lima is similar in nature to Wapakoneta, but larger, more intimidating. He's so grateful for summer band because at least he's not walking in knowing no one. But still. First days suck. New schools suck. And getting dropped off out front when probably every other senior gets to drive themselves only makes it worse.

His mom might as well have packed his lunch and put smiley face stickers on the flap. He feels like a child.

"Have a good day, sweetie."

His mom leans over for a kiss and he rolls his eyes and pecks her cheek. "I'll find a ride home."

"Rehearsal after school today?"

"Not band. Kurt's probably coming over though." Two sentences in and he's already saying Kurt's name.

"I'm glad you two are friends now – see? Kindness worked."

"Right. Bye, Mom." _God, get me out of this car._ He steps out right into the path of probably 10 football players who make a grand show of being personally insulted.

"Watch where you're going, _faggot_."

"Sorry. Sorry. Just—just let me through, please?" Blaine dares to push at one of the smaller guys and he's allowed through as their laughter follows him into the building.

It's going to be a long day.

"Maynard! Hey, cutie. Welcome to the _real_ McKinley High!" Tina grins and opens the door into the main hallway for him. "Love the bow tie."

"Oh. Th-thank you. It's not too much?"

"Do you like it?"

"I do."

"Then it's perfect." Of course, this is coming from the girl walking down the hall dressed in combat boots, a sleeveless chartreuse jacket that goes to her knees and—

"Did you dye your hair blue?"

"Just the tips. Do you like it?"

"I—" He stops walking and steps in front of her with his head cocked and reaches out to touch the locks. "Yeah. I do. Does Jonesy allow that? Our director at Wapak wouldn't let any unnatural hair color during marching season."

"So long as I hide it under my hat, I'm good.  Where's your homeroom?"

"Um, room…" he pulls his schedule out of his back pocket. "Room 403. Mr. Blackburn."

"Ew. Okay, senior lockers are this way."

She hooks her arm in his and they turn the corner into the senior hall. And then he's more grateful for summer band than he could have ever imagined because if this had to be the first time he ever saw Kurt Hummel, he surely would fall over flat on his face. As it is, he only stutters his step, catches his breath and drops his arm from Tina's grip. "Oh my god."

Tina follows his gaze and smiles. "Yeah. Welcome to the real Kiki, Maynard."

"He's—he's _beautiful._ "

Blaine doesn't even hear her chuckle, but has the sense to look when she pats his arm to take her leave. "Yeah. Stunning. I'll leave you to it." She pauses and pushes him forward. "One foot in front of the other, Maynard. You can do it."

"R-right. Thanks, Tina."

Kurt is dressed in what would seem to be simple dress slacks, a white dress shirt and vest. But, upon closer inspection it's more. So much more. He has an ascot. Scarf? It's the scarf from the estate sale perfectly knotted and tucked into the collar of his shirt as an ascot. As Blaine approaches, he realizes the vest isn't just any vest – it's lapelled with a chained brooch of some sort pinned to the lapel, draping delicately across the fabric and attached to one of the numerous small buttons down the front.

Kurt turns to close his locker, still unaware Blaine's there, staring, gaping, probably making a plum fool of himself and when Kurt's back is to him, Blaine does gasp. The back of the vest is cinched like a corset. Snug around his waist, the strings of the ribbon dangling down his back as an invitation to be slowly pulled and released and—

"Maynard!" Kurt slams his locker shut, grinning so completely that Blaine fears his eyes are going to dance right out of his head. And Kurt's hair – the swoop that has decorated his forehead all summer is styled up, the highlights of the summer's sun accenting the coif perfectly.

"Hi." His voice is breathy, which is odd since he can't seem to _catch_ his breath, so he clears his throat and hikes his  bag up on his shoulder. "You look—the scarf looks—I love your vest."

"Thank you. Did you see the _back_?" And Kurt spins and Blaine's brain spins in his head and he tries to look cool and collected, but his bag slips off his shoulder with a thud. "Oh! Are you—Blaine?"

"I'm—I'm good. Can you help me find my locker? I'm #29."

"Over here – two away from mine. And, I love the bow tie, by the way. Did you get that Saturday?"

Blaine stands up straighter as he walks around Kurt to get to his locker, glancing at his schedule for the combination. "Yeah, I did. They had some really nice ones." He feels the burn of Kurt's eyes on him and fumbles with his combination, hoping he doesn't notice when he starts the pattern the third time. "I wish I'd have brought more money but I sort of zapped all my funds with that pitcher for mom."

He finally gets it open, shoves his afternoon class folders into it and slams it closed, grinning up to Kurt who is still waiting on him. And then Kurt's reaching for his tie and Blaine automatically lifts his chin and closes his eyes. "Just a little crooked. Do you always wear bow ties?" When did Kurt's voice get so breathy and— _open your eyes, Anderson._

"Not always, but often. Do you—it's too much, isn't it?"

"It's perfect. Very Brooks Brothers." Kurt pulls out his schedule and bumps it against Blaine's. "Do we have any classes together?"

Blaine scans quickly hoping for at least a few. _No, French not Spanish, AP English!, band, lunch, no, no._ "Looks like midday I'm attached to your hip."

"Excellent. I can think of worse ways to spend the lull of the day." The bell rings through the halls and they both jump. "Come on. Senior homerooms are this way."

Blaine nods and watches him walk away – _that vest! -_ and Kurt stops and turns to drag him by his satchel, sneaking a peek down at his upturned cuffs and boat shoes. "Hurry _up._ Guys with cute ankles get double detentions for being late."

**~~~**~~~**

_Brittany [08-25-11 3:03am]: How do you hypnotize a cow?_

_Blaine [08-25-11 3:05am]: What? Who even gave you my number?_

_Brittany [08-25-11 3:06am]: Snix. Because I went to the fair and one was wandering around in circles in its pen and I thought if I could hypnotize it, it would calm down and feel better._

_Blaine [08-25-11 3:08am]: I have no idea, Nini. Maybe the cow wasn't wandering. Maybe it…why am I giving this any thought?_

_Brittany [08-25-11 3:09am]: Because animals are our friends, Maynard._

_Blaine [08-25-11 3:11am]: Yes. Yes they are._

_Blaine [08-25-11 3:12am]: How do you placate Nini at 3am?_

_Kurt [08-25-11 3:14am]: Run, Forrest. Run._

_Blaine [08-25-11 3:15am]: Thank you. You've been very helpful._

_Blaine [08-25-11 3:20am]:_ [ _http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9e3_EEJqDk4_ ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9e3_EEJqDk4)

_Brittany [08-25-11 3:25am]: I don't know what a didgeridoo is OR where to find one. Now I can't sleep._

_Blaine [08-25-11 3:26am]: That makes two of us. The cow is fine. The fair was over 5 days ago. Warn your girlfriend that I'm still her section leader and if she does this to me again, she gets laps._

_Brittany [08-25-11 3:27am]: Snixxy didn't upset the cow._

_Blaine [08-25-11 3:28am]: No, I’m sure she didn't. She loves cows as much as you. Good night, Nini._

_Brittany [08-25-11 3:29am]: Goodnight, Maynard K. Hobbit._

_Blaine [08-25-11 3:31am]: You are a dead woman._

_Santana [08-25-11 3:33am]: She shared your link – quite the creative little fucker, aren't you?_

_Blaine [08-25-11 3:34am]: Three laps. Tomorrow's rehearsal. You are so mine._

_Santana [08-25-11 3:35am]: Promises, promises._

_Kurt [08-25-11 6:46am]: Did you solve the bovine mystery?_

_Blaine [08-25-11 6:48am]: How did you know?_

_Kurt [08-25-11 6:50am]: Snix has a big mouth._

_Blaine [08-25-11 6:51am]: What did I ever do to deserve that?_

_Kurt [08-25-11 6:52am]: Consider it your rookie initiation. Do you want me to pick up coffee? I have time._

_Blaine [08-25-11 6:54am]: Yes. Medium drip, please._

_Kurt [08-25-11 6:55am]: Got it. Mooooooooo._

_Blaine [08-25-11 6:56am]: Pity I can't give you laps._

_Kurt [08-25-11 6:57am]: Pity._

**~~~**~~~**

Blaine flings his bag underneath the table in the middle of the hall, not quite sure why it's there, but welcoming the small hideaway it provides him. He has half an hour until rehearsal starts and the first assignment in his AP English class is already giving him fits.

He scoots underneath the table, pulls out the assignment and lays back, propping his head against his bag, re-hearing Mrs. Green's speech as she handed it out.

_"Not doing this will lose you points. Doing it won’t gain you any – numerically anyway. But, as you write your papers and formulate your opinions for me this semester, my grading system will work better if I know a little about who you are. Where you're coming from. This isn't a science or math class with facts and figures. It's English, and language is fluid. Paint me the river that brought you to me and we can float together."_

Rumor has it Mrs. Green is the most coveted of all English teachers at McKinley, but at the moment, Blaine is thinking the McKinley student body is a bit daft – or Mrs. Green is – who even _talks_ that way? He heaves a melodramatic sigh and reads through the prompts to the poem – the poem that will tell this stranger all about "the river that brought him to her." _Please._

_I am from _______ (specific ordinary item), from _______ (product name) and _______._

_I am from the _______ (home description... adjective, adjective, sensory detail)._

It's like a madlibs game you play with yourself.

_Masturbatory Madlibs. I'd make a fortune with that._

He doesn't know where he's from. He doesn't _care_ for that matter. All he knows is he wants away from wherever it is. But, he supposes, he won't know which direction _away_ is if he doesn't have a notion of where he's standing now. Where he once stood.

He keeps reading, ten questions in total, all with three or four required answers and he wonders what ever happened to the good old, "What I did over the summer," questionnaire.

"I could have sworn I saw him come in this door. Maynard! Where are you?"

"Over here. Under. Here." He flaps his paper and laughs at the absurdity of it. Fortunately, Kurt and Santana find him, peeking under the table with furrowed brows and gym bags of rehearsal clothes, which is good because Santana is in a mini skirt and almost flashes him when she squats.

"Do I want to know what you're doing under a table in the science hallway?" Kurt sits down against the wall opposing the table.

"English. Have you done it yet?"

"Ah. Yeah. Sort of – I have answers down for it all, but I'm not sure how happy I am with it."

"Did you go honest or just fill it in to get it done?"

"Honest. Which is why I need to fool with it some more."

"Shit."

"Come over this weekend. We've got that obnoxious trig homework too."

"Yeah, dudes. I'm going to get dressed for practice. I am _so_ glad I'm in High School For Dummies. Your college prep classes give me indigestion." Santana plants a peck on Kurt's cheek and stands back up, giving Blaine a view of only her purple kitten heels and her bare, tanned legs-that-never-end. It could be worse – she could have flashed him.

"I wasn't kidding about laps, Snix – make sure you stretch before I get there." Blaine rolls out from under the table and grabs his bag, inspecting himself for dust and crud from the floor.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Don’t give out my number. It's rude, even if it is just to Nini." Blaine tries to keep his professional face on when Kurt offers no assistance at Santana's glare.

"Don’t look at me, Snix. We're a team leadership here. I'm not going to overthrow his authority, especially when it means watching you work up a sweat before practice even starts."

"Let's see if there are any more movie night boobie snuggles – for _either_ of you – in your future."

"Foot rubs. I always win."

Santana huffs and leaves, her heels clicking furiously on the tile floor. They hear a break in her step, followed by a perfunctory _shit._

"Watch your step, Snix. I'd hate to see you pull a muscle before those laps!"

"Fuck off, Hobbit!"

The outside door crashes open as she leaves and their laughter fades, leaving an uncomfortable silence. Blaine shoves his assignment back into his bag. "Foot rubs, huh?"

"Yeah – you should come to our next sleepover. She's a lot less abrasive after 10 pm."

"Can we feed her after midnight?"

"Just salt & vinegar kettle chips. Not porn."

"Mmm…at least she has good taste in snacks." Blaine blinks and looks at Kurt with a wicked grin. "Wait – you've watched porn with Snix?"

"Shut up, Maynard. We're going to be late."

**~~~**~~~**

The first football game of the season never gave Blaine anxiety at Wapak, but today, he has been buzzing and thrumming with overwhelming energy all day. Of course, just like the differences with band camp, at McKinley, football Friday nights were a _production._ Rehearsal after school, dinner for the entire band served by the band parents, changing into uniform, another brief rehearsal and then either loading onto buses, or marching out onto McKinley's field for pre-game.

Basically, football Friday nights were 16 hour days, 18 if you went out to play afterward. And now, it was hour 10. Time to suit up for a short rehearsal, a full inspection and then cadence to the field. Tonight's game was at home. The half time show has been chopped down from a twelve-minute show to a seven-minute show, cutting off at the end of Kurt's solo.

Everyone is quietly getting dressed, talking in hushed tones – as if the nerves are the only thing holding the band together. Rookies are on edge, upperclassmen are focused at the task at hand, trying to remember all the details from last season. Band shirt, pants, black socks, suspenders, jacket, sash, long hair up, hat, plume, shined horn and shoes, mouthpieces, flip folder stashed discreetly for stand tunes yet-to-be-memorized. So many details. So many opportunities to screw it up.

Blaine slides his suspenders up over his shoulders and Kurt is standing in front of him with two square black boxes. "I grabbed your hat while I was in there – it's a little chaotic tonight."

"Oh, good. Thanks. Help me get the angle right? I always tipped it back too far at Wapak."

"Yep – parallel to the ground. You ready for it now?"

"Ready." Blaine stands up straight and closes his eyes while Kurt fits the hat solidly over his head.

"Oh. Dear. You. Um. Maynard, your curls."

"What? Just tuck 'em in." He lifts his hands to begin doing just that and opens this eye to find Kurt frantically glancing at the clock and looking back to the flag corps room. "What?"

"It's not going to stay."

"It always did at Wa—"

Kurt's glare silences him. "We're not _at_ Wapak. For the hundredth time. You will fail inspection and you will be pulled from halftime."

"Are you kidding me? She'll – she actually fails people at inspection?"

"It's _inspection_. We have to be perfectly uniform. No hair below the collar, below the ear—"

"On the brow. I heard, but I figured for tonight—"

"No. _Every_ performance. Even concert season we follow a strict dress, hair, jewelry and make-up code. This isn't a game, Maynard."

"Actually – it is? It's a football game?"

Kurt shoots him another irritated look and Blaine plops down on the chair closest to him. "So what am I supposed to do?"

"Don’t move. I'll be right back. Honestly, did you read _nothing_ she gave us pre-season?"

He opens his mouth to answer, but Kurt has already walked into the flag corps room. He comes out with Sugar who clicks her tongue and tsk-tsks, running her fingers through Blaine's curls. "I think bobby pins, some super gel and spray should do it. Maynard, baby. You need to get a haircut."

"I like my curls."

"Then bring bobby pins and gel and hairspray next week. We don't give this shit out for free." She slams the items in Kurt's hand and bounces off, stopping for one more directive. "And a pick. We don't want a repeat of Lice-gate 2009."

"Oh dear god, no. We do not." Kurt shivers and lifts his hands to Blaine's hair, pausing before touching. "Can—can I?"

"Yeah, yeah. Go ahead. Will we be late?"

"We're good. I work fast." Kurt squirts gel into his fingers and warns, "Cold. Sorry," before running his fingers through Blaine's hair front to back. "Hrm…this is thick."

Blaine can't even bite back the moan. Kurt's fingers are magical and he realizes as Kurt tries forming the mess into a side part how tense he's been all day. With every sweep of Kurt's fingers, either the soft dig to move his hair or the tender pat to make sure a bobby pin is staying put, he feels himself unwind and relax. He pockets the information for his next headache – this would be miraculous.

"Am I—am I being too rough? Pulling or—"

"No. No, it's—it actually feels really good. I'm sure I look ridiculous."

"Well. Yes. You do. But, it has to stay when you take your hat off and put it on, so – you're going to look silly." Kurt steps back and examines his work. "Actually, not so bad. You look sort of cute with the bobby pins."

"You are a horrible liar."

"We're not going for fashion – we're passing inspection." Kurt grabs Blaine's hat and eases it on his head, popping the top of it when he's happy. "There. Perfe—" He unhooks the strap from the side and slips it under Blaine's chin and reattaches it. " _Now_ it's perfect."

"Two minutes to Chart One, people. TWO minutes!"

"Break a leg out there, Kiki."

"You too, Maynard."

**~~~**~~~**

_Mike [08-27-11 2:57am]: Nice job out there tonight. I tried to find you post-game, but Kiki said you left._

_Blaine [08-27-11 3:01am]: Thanks, man. Yeah, I forgot to tell Mom everyone went out afterwards and she wanted the car back home._

_Mike [08-27-11 3:02am]: I could have driven you. Next week?_

_Blaine [08-27-11 3:03am]: Yeah. Next week. 'Night._

Blaine tosses his phone on the floor and curls around his pillow, running through stand tune fingerings to try to get to sleep. His mom didn't want the car home; not at 11pm. He was simply overloaded with Kurt. He needed a break. To breathe. To think. To not trip over his tongue and his thoughts and his normally put-together, sealed-with-a-bow-tie demeanor.

Mid-day classes, afternoon rehearsals, the game, the game, the game – together for everything. His cologne. His hair product. His sweat. His huge grin when they'd worked out a quick trumpet cheer based on Queen's _Flash –_ Santana leading the oral cheer and Kurt and Blaine wailing away at the trumpet teasers.

_Next week we'll get the low brass in on it – it's going to KILL, Maynard!_

The accidental hug when McKinley intercepted a pass and took the ball 97 yards for the winning touchdown. The shoulder bumps and eye-catches as they celebrated around the victory bell and marched in perfect formation back to the band room, chanting _W-M-H-S_ with the perfect cadence of the percussion.

Too much Kurt.

He squeezes the pillow tighter and sighs, remembering Kurt's arms around him like this at band camp. To feel them again. To feel him pressed behind him as they sleep again.

To think that maybe, just maybe Kurt longs for it too. 


	16. Chapter Fifteen

Kurt hadn't thought it through. That much was clear. " _Come over this weekend. We've got that obnoxious trig homework too,_ " he'd said to Blaine. Like it was nothing. Like this is what friends do. Confidantes. Buddy-ole-pals. Dawgs. Mates. Brothers-from-another-mothers. Homies—

"…just don't know if I can bullshit this and if we have to read it to the class—do you think we'll have to read it to the class?"

"Huh? To the—read wha—oh! Yes. The poem. I—I don't even know." Kurt gulps and digs in his bag for the assignment – oh, let's be honest – for the ruse that brought Blaine here. To lay on Kurt's bed. Face down. Ass…not down. Rounded and firm and there. In the middle of Kurt's bed. With his bare, tanned, muscular legs sticking out of khaki shorts, bent at the knee, that trail down to a slight farmers tan from ankle socks worn for rehearsals to the vague indents from his sandals still visible on the tops of his feet.

Not that he'd noticed any of that about his _pal_ Blaine "Maynard" Anderson. You don't notice those things about your _chum._ No-sir-ee.

"You okay?"

"Y—yeah. Why?" Kurt finally finds his paper and sits up in his desk chair, kicking his feet up onto the bed trying with all of his might be appear casual. Calm. Cool. Collected. Friendly and scholarly. He runs a hand through his hair and doesn't even _care_ what he just did to his coif that he'd spent entirely too long fixing before Blaine's arrival.

Blaine looks up at what is probably now an odd spike of hair and Kurt rolls his eyes, blindly flapping it back down. "You seem—"

"Tired. I was out too late with everyone last night." Kurt flips his completed assignment onto the bed with Blaine. "Why didn't you come?"

"Tired. Too. Mom gave me an early curfew because I didn't know you'd all go out and—"

"Oh. Will she let you go out with us?"

"If I tell her what's up, she's usually cool with it. I just didn't know. And, like always, you guys do _so_ much more than we ever did at games at Wapak."

"Yeah, it's pretty much constant playing or cheering or screwing around or—I hate football, but I love football season."

"We have to organize a _We Will Rock You_ cheer. It'd be a total waste of Queen at a football game if we don't."

"Just start the stomp-clap rhythm and everyone will figure it out."

"So, this assignment. Reading aloud. I just can't see her _not_ asking us to do that? She read examples all dramatically and I feel like—" Blaine sighs and looks at his paper again. He knows answers to every blank on the page, and yet he can't seem to put one of them down.

"Take a look at mine if you want. I guess I don't have anything _to_ hide from my upbringing, so it wasn't a big deal to write out."

"Will you read it to me? In case we have to—just to see how it works? How it feels that way?"

"I—" Blaine's rolled to his side now, shy-eyed and picking at non-existent loose threads on Kurt's duvet. Kurt can't quite resolve this image of him compared to the happy-go-lucky, occasionally cocky trumpet player that has invaded his every thought and breath and dream. So he takes the paper back and clears his throat. "Sure. It probably sounds dumber this way, but—"

"I doubt that, Kurt."

And Kurt looks at him again, not often hearing Blaine call him by his real name. It sounds so soft and tender, he has to close his eyes and remind himself to breath before he begins the poem. Blaine sits up with a shy, encouraging smile. "Okay. Here goes nothing."

  
**I Am From**  
I am from designer scarves, from Clinique perfume and Firestone Tires.  
I am from hard-earned suburbia…comfortable, inviting, a warm embrace that tells you you're _home_.  
I am from the gardenia, the never-dying poinsettia from Christmas 2000.  
I am from Friday night dinners and button-noses, from Burt & Elizabeth Hummel.  
I am from the closed-off emotion and deep, unconditional love.  
From _I will love you no matter what_ and _I'm sorry; your mother is dead_.  
I am from _find the path that suits you_. And _what if no path does?_ From _how could he create me, then hate me?_ And _mine doesn't hate you – I'll share_.  
I'm from Lima and Portsmouth. A long line to the British throne, not-quite-perfect roast chicken and create-as-you-go baked goods.  
From the teen sweethearts whose souls were bound to the second chances bound by sons.  
I am from hallway stairs and attic crates. Two dollar picture frames and mommy brag books. Under dad's bed and on my closet shelf, the home for the only tangible things I have left of her.  
I am Kurt Elizabeth Elliott Hummel.

Kurt puts the paper down and blinks once, releasing a tear he had tried to ignore while reading. "Okay, so. That was a little harder to get out than I imagined it would be."

"It was beautiful. Don't change a thing."

Kurt nods and sits down, sniffing and wiping the top of his hand under his nose. "Sorry. Sometimes I can talk about her without any problem. And others—"

"Was the poinsettia hers?"

Kurt shot his gaze up and sniffed again, a huff of a laugh escaping through his parted lips. "You caught that, huh?"

"Quick math— was it her last Christmas?"

"Yes. For a few years, Dad and I would put that thing in the darkest, coldest places in the house we could find. The son-of-a-bitch would not die."

"And you couldn't just throw it out, of course."

"No – it had to go _naturally._ " Kurt rolls his eyes at his and his father's silliness. "But, it's still in the family room. On top of the upright piano that hasn't been tuned since she died."

"Oh. Get that tuned! There's nothing more heartbreaking than a neglected piano."

"It sort of dropped on our priority list. And then I quit lessons and now it's just another piece of furniture to dust."

"You're _killing_ me right now." Blaine grabs at his shirt and gasps, falling dramatically backwards onto Kurt's bed, writhing and moaning and clutching and being a general idiotic jackass.

It levels the drama of the moment perfectly.

Kurt laughs and could kiss— "Do you want—I can go get us some snacks, you dumbass."

Blaine gasps and writhes and wheezes one more time.

"While you…or are you still convulsing?"

"I'm done now. Promise me you'll tune that damned piano."

"Yessir. Do you like lime-flavored things?"

"Is it something you baked?"

"Yes. Lime sugar cookies."

"Then, I love it."

"Blaine?"

Blaine sits up and crosses his legs, putting his hands in his lap, looking again like the perfect gentlemen he is. "Yeah? I’m sorry— I'm being an asshole."

"It's—thank you. For making me laugh when it could have just been awkward."

"I—I guess I'd better get started on mine, then."

"Go ahead and use my laptop. It might be easier to just type it out without thinking too much?"

"I can do the not-thinking-too-much really well."

"I'm not going to respond to that. I'll be right back."

Because he needs to get out of that room. And out of earshot. And to the kitchen where he still feels his mother. Who he doesn't miss every day, but suddenly today, he aches for her.

**~~~**~~~**

Kurt allows himself a good cry, and sniffles his way through putting together a tray of cookies and iced tea before heading back to his room, stiff-backed and, he hopes, a little less vulnerable. After ten years without her, grief for his mother never comes when expected, and _never_ when it's convenient.

Grief is a cruel mistress.

And right now, there is a cute boy in his bedroom. He hasn't the time for a mistress – of any variety.

When he enters his room, Blaine is busily typing, pausing, biting the side of his thumbnail and typing again. "You like real sugar, right?"

"Yes, please." And he keeps typing and chewing, blindly taking the tea with a nod, stopping only when Kurt places a cookie directly on the keyboard.

"One more…" Blaine moves the cookie with a grin and types away, mumbling under his breath as he finishes, "I am Blaine…Devon…Anderson. There. God, this sucks."

"I bet it doesn't. Eat your cookie. They make everything better."

Blaine grabs the cookies and pushes back from the desk, spinning in Kurt's. "Ooh. Yes. They do. You have a way with—" He stops, staring at Kurt, his head tilted in question. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm—" Kurt sighs and sits on the edge of his bed. "Blotchy face gave me away, didn't it?"

"A little." They eat and drink in silence – only the tinkling of ice against glass heard in the room. "What do you miss most about her?"

Kurt looks up and there he is, Earnest Blaine, staring and inquisitive and if he had a tail it would be thumping rhythmically on the wood floor, waiting for his answer. He's so completely adorable, Kurt has no choice but to answer him, even though he'd much rather move along to Blaine's assignment or to Trig or to practicing or anything else. "All the things she's not around for." Blaine's eyebrows droop and Kurt rushes on because he cannot stand Sad Earnest Blaine. "She never heard me play. Or got to laugh as dad learned how to cook. She never saw the life dad and I were able to make _because_ of her and sometimes it just makes me angry." Blaine's eyes have drooped even more; that has to be fixed. "And blotchy."

"Your blotchy is almost gone."

"Good. Let's see what you wrote."

"Oh. Yeah. Lemme print it off here." And he does and Kurt scoots back on his bed, nibbling another cookie and wondering, as he does in times such as these, if his mom _can_ see the things she's not around for. Like his friends. And his crushes. And his successes and failures and even the day-to-day mundanity of it all. And whether he believes in all of that or not, the idea that she can allows him to continue on and look at Blaine with _scholarly_ interest, surely not anything else – his new bff forever – who is sitting there with his paper looking expectant and maybe a little nauseated.

Kurt quirks a smile and nods at the paper without a word.

Blaine's hand goes up to rub at the back of his neck and he sighs. "You're going to make me read this aloud, aren't you?"

"You made me. Fair is fair." Kurt crosses his arms and his feet at the ankles, his eyes crinkling with a hint of challenge as if to say, _go ahead – out angst me – I dare you._

"Fine. I'm not standing up."

"Stop farting around and read."

"Bossy."

"Read." Blaine hesitates and Kurt softly adds, "I'm not going to judge you, Maynard."

"I know. Okay."

  
**I Am From**  
I am from vintage bow ties, from Vaseline Glass and Armani suits, paid for by Honda.  
I am from the broken… Rockwellian, well-to-do, never let them see you sweat.  
I am from the ornamental grass, the artificial fern that the cleaning lady dusted – never watered.  
I am from OSU football Saturdays and thick unruly curls, from Timothy & Janet Anderson.  
I am from the center of attention and emotional stoicism.  
From _toughen up; be a man_ and _he tries, B. He tries_. (I never believe her)  
I am from Christmas and Easter and the Anderson pew warmed twice a year, wearing our Sunday best. From disbelief to unbelief to peace in not knowing.  
I'm from Wapakoneta, "the east coast" and Europe, clams-on-a-half-shell and tail-gate bratwurst with kraut. Piles and piles of delicious kraut.  
From the brother who stars in 2-bit commercials, the abandoned wife and loving mother, the philandering husband and absent father.  
From the old house and the new, shoe boxes and piano top, my bedroom collage and cellphone snapshots that hold the true story of my life.  
I am Blaine Devon Anderson.

His voice never wavered as he read but his fingers would clench the paper just a little tighter whenever he mentioned his father. His passive mother. The good memories that tend to hide among the weeds of the bad ones.

Blaine lowers his paper and grabs for his iced tea, his eyes focused into the raised glass, probably taking a much larger drink than he needs. And Kurt lets him.

Blaine puts his glass on Kurt's desk with probably more force than necessary, wincing when it and the ice inside of it rings through the room. "Sorry."

Kurt continues to wait until they can connect. Until the ache of writing it down, of hearing it out loud dissipates enough for Blaine to trust him enough to look at him again. And then, "What do you miss most about him?"

Blaine huffs bitterly and gets up, pointing to the bed, climbing on when Kurt curls his legs to himself to give him room. "Sometimes, absolutely nothing."

"But, you just wrote about some good memories."

Blaine nods and looks around Kurt's room, landing on a photograph on his top bookshelf. "Is that her? Your mom?"

Kurt follows his gaze and smiles, getting up to grab the frame. "Yes. The summer before she died." He gives it one last longing look and hands it to Blaine whose eyes grow bigger when he gets a closer look.

"Kurt, you're her spitting image."

"Yeah. I hope I keep her hair because otherwise, I see hair plugs in my 20's."

Blaine chuckles and rubs his hand over his own curls. "I have my dad's hair. Mom's is thick like mine, but only a little wavy. I look a _lot_ like my dad."

"Does that bother you?"

"Motivates me to stop the similarities there." He hands the picture back and smiles. "She's beautiful."

"She was. Of course, what eight-year-old boy doesn't think his mother is beautiful?"

"I can't imagine how hard that was."

"There's a weird blessing in it happening when I was that young. I didn't quite _get it_. And now, I just miss – well, like I said. I miss the opportunity to share things with her. When I bake, I'm with her. But, otherwise…" Kurt shrugs and he knows it sounds crass and unfeeling, but it's just sort of all he knows. "Otherwise, it's just how things are."

"I had a friend at Wapak who was determined that I grieve and cry and mourn the lack of a dad in my life. I mean, it's not like your situation obviously because my dad _chose_ to be absent."

"I’m thinking your situation is worse. Because of the choice."

"I'd just as soon not have to deal with either, but Sheila – I guess she thought I should have been crawling on all fours in tortured misery because my dad was a jackass."

"Are you sure Rachel wasn't two-timing and going to Wapak too?"

Blaine cracks a laugh. "You know, I guess they are a lot alike." He scoots up to the other pillow against the headboard to sit next to Kurt. " Sheila was about 5'10", heavy-set, short blond hair and played sousaphone. I never made the connection, but everything was an opportunity for drama for Sheila too."

"You have to admire their passion."

"You do. But, I—don’t get me wrong. I passionately hated my dad for a long time. Especially when they were talking as if I didn't have a voice about visitation and _he's my son too, bitch_ – like it had ever mattered before and yeah. I was enraged."

"He'd call your mom a bitch right in front of you?"

"Now and then when she'd started standing up for herself. He couldn't handle it."

"Blaine."

"I know. But, somehow I just...gave up on it? I know I gave up on him. I guess when I did, I gave up on the anger too because that shit weighs a ton."

"It does – and if you carry it around long enough, you don't even notice the weight of it. Or how much it's hurting other people." Kurt dares a glance over to Blaine, snapping back to stare at his legs as soon as their eyes meet.

"It's okay – over and done."

Kurt nods and sighs, pulling his legs up to wrap his arms around his knees. "Can I ask you a question? And—it's going to sound like I'm doing exactly what I promised I wouldn't, but I swear to you. This isn't coming from judgment."

"Sure. Hit me."

"Do you think that maybe…" Kurt sighs again and rests his cheek on his knees staring just beyond Blaine. "…maybe you showed off a bit to get his attention? If by not only being the best, but the brightest and the loudest and the one with all the glory, he'd finally see you."

Blaine leans back and sighs. He says nothing and Kurt worries he's been too forthright. Too nosey. Not compassionate or caring or really hearing what Blaine has been saying. "I'm sorry—you don't show-off so much anymore and—"

"No, you're exactly right. It started that way in high school – when things got so bad at home. Dad showed up for homecoming – he's a Wapak grad, too. I had a big solo – freshman year even – and I played it right to him. Fuck shooting for the box. I was shooting _straight_ for him."

"Did he like it?"

"He never said one word to me about it afterward. I got a standing ovation every single Friday night. He never even honored me with a grunt."

"So you played harder."

"And louder. And higher. And the better I played, the more he'd comment on how _gay_ band was. _You should stick with baseball._ I even tried showing him videos of the greats - Maynard, of course – and Doc, Wynton, Miles and Louis – god, Louis fucking Armstrong. Show him what _athletes_ they are – appeal to that side of him. I showed him Drum Corps International stuff – the Cavaliers and Phantom Regiment and Blue Devils. He was completely unfazed."

"Did you finally just give up?"

"I realized that if I hadn't impressed him by then, I was never going to. So, I stopped trying."

"I know it's no consolation, but my dad goes sort of crazy. He can cheer loud enough for the both of them."

"I look forward to it – if you're willing to share, that is."

"Any time. And I'm glad you kept playing anyway."

"Me too, because by the point that I'd just about given up, Mom had kicked him out of the house. Last marching season. And then, I realized how much music had carried me through it all. All that wailing and screeching and huffing and puffing and growing my range and my skill, I'd not only channeled my rage, but I'd also learned to love music and performing in a way I'd never imagined for myself."

"The great escape. I know it well – it's how I escaped from Doc. I mean, I went all emotive with it—"

"And I went all loud and screamy with it."

"But we're both better for it – although I wish I had your range."

"Why?"

"I just—I'd like to pop off some of those high notes too, you know? Or not have to worry that I'll hit the ones on the page."

"You nail them every time. With grace. I wish I had that."

"Or, maybe we're okay with what we have. No one wants a trumpet section full of _you._ " Kurt laughs and ducks to avoid Blaine's swatting arm. "More tea? We've been sitting too long."

"Yeah. Lemme help."

Kurt unfolded and groaned with a stretch and swallowed thickly when Blaine did the same and a hint of his belly peeked out from under his t-shirt. And then, without thinking, "Snix is coming over tonight to sleep over."

"Oh—do I? Do I need to leave?"

"No! No. I just wondered—do you want to stay? We never get much sleep, but—"

"I don't want to intrude on you guys."

"We've been over this. If you're invited, you're not intruding. Although, lemme check with her first – in case she didn't have something personal to unload, and then you'll stay?"

He doesn't want this day to end. He doesn't want Blaine to leave. To drive off and go home while he's stuck here with his lingering scent – raspberries and freshness and summer – and Santana will wonder why he's acting all stupid and dreamy-eyed. He doesn't want to look at the clock while they work and think, "Only another hour left." And if he's honest with himself, he doesn't want only Santana to snuggle with.

Maybe he can arrange a Kurt sandwich when it's time to turn in and pretend to sleep.

Because that's what _comrades_ in McKinley Marching Titans do, right? They spoon, three to a double bed, under the covers in the dark with whispered giggles, shared secrets and bare legs tangled together and dear _god_ Blaine just say yes already.

"I'll have to drop Mom's car off – and get clothes."

"We can arrange that."

Kurt looks down and bites his lip suddenly nervous at what he's just set up. It could be awkward for any one of the three of them.

"I'd love to stay." Blaine smiles a little more knowingly than Kurt would like to admit and grabs the tray. "You check with Snix. I'll refill our glasses. This Trig homework makes me sweat just thinking about it."


	17. Chapter Sixteen

"It needs a few minutes under the broil—" Blaine stops dead in his tracks at the site before him. Kurt is propped at the head of his bed with Santana's feet in his lap. She's flat on her back, arms stretched across the mattress. Her head is rolled back almost-not-quite hanging off the foot of the bed, eyes closed, mouth slack. She's _moaning_ from the deepest recesses of her body. "Should I—come back?"

"What? No, oh my god." Kurt laughs and digs the pad of his thumb up the arch of Santana's bare foot, completely ignoring the obscene noises she's making, the way her body is arching into the pleasure of it all. "She's always like this."

Blaine blinks and awkwardly takes a seat at Kurt's desk, having trouble taking his eyes off of her. Or putting them _on_ Kurt. He's being so fucking _cavalier_ about it all – like giving someone that much pleasure – moaning, body-arching pleasure – is something you always do in mixed company on a Saturday night.

"Cheese still not brown enough?"

"N—no. Carole is putting a salad together. I told her we didn't need one, but—"

"She's not to be swayed. And her dressing is amazing, so I quit trying to talk her out of it." Kurt cups his fingers over Santana's toes and massages around each one slowly, deliberately, working the web of her toes between his fingers. She sounds wrecked _._

Blaine can't fucking _breathe._

Santana lolls her head back further, finally opening her eyes and acknowledging Blaine's presence. "You should go next, Maynard. He is uh- _maz_ —fuck! Amazing."

"I think—no. Thank you." He tries for a polite smile up to Kurt, but fears it probably looks more like gas pains. "I think I'll pass."

"Your loss. My gain. You even can get your toes," She hisses and writhes, scooting even closer to Kurt's skilled fingers, "painted at the end. Kiki's full service, aren't you, baby?"

"Full service. Did you bring polish?"

"Yep. Nini couldn't decide what color she wanted to suck on, so we have two."

"Jesus—"

Kurt laughs deep and low in his chest and Blaine can only rub his forehead, wondering how long this night actually will last. So far it's only 45 minutes in and he could quite possibly bust the zipper on his pants by virtue of being in the same room with these—seductive bastards. 

"Maynard, seriously – I can do you next. It's very relaxing."

_Clearly. Super relaxing._

"Yeah, and I know just the color for you, too."

"I—uh. Yeah, I think—" Blaine stops talking as Kurt slowly bends Santana's foot toward her leg, rubbing his hands up her calf to help stretch the muscles there. Santana groans more loudly than before and Blaine has to shift in the chair. The night will be interminably long. "I think I'll pass."

Kurt pouts. The fucker. "Aw, come on. You'll become an instant addict."

Blaine can only watch as Kurt leans over to his bedside table to squirt a lotion into his hands, rubbing it into his palms first while Santana moans and wriggles even closer in anticipation. "Ooh, my favorite part."

Kurt wiggles his eyebrows, first to her, then to Blaine and cups her calf in his hands, slowly dragging his lotioned fingers along her leg, around her heels, finally stroking her foot like he's stroking—

"Fuck!" Santana hisses and arches, _smacking the mattress_ , her head thrown back with a debauched, drawn out groan. Kurt treats her other leg in the same fashion and she finally silences, running a hand through her hair, mewing softly as Kurt's fingers soften on her skin.

Blaine swallows thickly and wonders how he's going to stand to check on the pizza again. So, he sits for another moment and wills himself to speak. "Oh—okay. I'll give it a try. But, no nail polish."

"Never, Maynard." Kurt's grin is downright wicked.

Blaine nods a little too enthusiastically and stands, wiping his sweaty palms on his shorts. "After food. I—I'll go—I'll go check on the pizza."

He's out in the hall in a flash, stopping to catch his breath. He must have completely lost his mind.

"Hurry up, Maynard! I'm always hungry afterwards!"

He has completely lost his mind.

**~~~**~~~**

"Okay. Before I change my mind. Where do you want me?"

Kurt's eyebrow lifts so high Blaine thinks it might pop off the top of his head. Santana, useless as usual, simply cackles. "I'll pick the movie while you two get your foreplay on."

"Snix, you really—" Blaine sighs and looks at Kurt again who's biting back a laugh and spreading lotion all over his hands.

"Why don't you sit in the desk chair and roll it over here. Prop your feet up and we can all see the TV that way."

"Yes. Good. I'll—" Blaine drops into the chair and rolls next to Kurt on the bed grateful he won’t have to be up on it with him because, well. Simply because.

"Maynard, relax. Snix is a bit melodramatic. I can't imagine my foot massages are orgasmic."

"The fuck they aren't – hope you brought extra undies, Maynard."

Blaine had started to kick his feet up onto the bed, but quickly snatches them back. "Maybe we shouldn't—"

"Give me your feet." Kurt wiggles his fingers. "I’m gooped and ready to go."

"Right. It's just feet." He swings his legs up onto the bed, adjusting in the chair to get comfortable and sucks in his breath when Kurt's lotion-slick hands cup under his heel to pull him closer. "Is—is this alright?" With a slow drag from heel to toe, Kurt smiles and Blaine sinks further into the chair. "Oh. _Oh."_

"There you go. Snix, hit play."

Blaine's eyes are closed when the movie starts and he's barely aware one is even playing. Kurt's hands are magi—talen—this feels really fucking _good_. "How come you didn't tell me about this hidden talent at band camp? You could make," Kurt hits a particularly fantastic spot on the arch of his foot and he sucks in his breath and moans softly, not even ashamed that Santana is probably watching, snickering and, knowing her, taking notes for insults on the field later in the week, "a fortune charging people for your services."

"My hands are not for sale, Maynard."

Blaine peeks at Kurt out of one eye. Kurt is smirking. He drags his hand up Blaine's calf and around his heel and turns to Santana as if doing this, running his silky hands all over Blaine's calf and feet and—"Oh!"—rolls his toes gently in his fingers is really not a thing to make one blink. He tries to concentrate on the movie instead. It is horrible. "Why are we—Kurt, tell me you do not own this movie."

"I do not own this movie."

"I do. What's wrong with it, Maynard? Does it not appeal to your buttoned-up, bowtie sensibilities?"

"No it—" Blaine tosses her a glare. "No, it's just _bad._ "

"It's Adam Sandler. He's a genius."

Blaine groans and is grateful of the subject matter because the groan has nothing to do with the movie or Santana's horrible taste. It's Kurt. His hands. His fingers. His _skill_ at massaging muscles he didn't even know needed massaging but dear god did they. Do they. Forever, they will always need massaging.

"So, Snix!" Kurt removes Blaine's right leg from his lap and squirts more lotion on his hands. "Left leg, Maynard. We only have nine months until graduation. OSU Lima, Rhodes or UNOH? Or are you leaving Lima like everyone in their right mind should do?"

Santana snaps the movie off and flops forward on the bed, her face at Kurt's feet. "I don't know. I don't know. I don’t fucking _know._ How are we supposed to know what we're going to do with the rest of our lives already?"

"Um…"

"Yeah. I know. Not everyone's as lucky as you, Keeks. You've known since 6th grade. What about you, Maynard?"

"Music Ed. Ohio State, probably. Maybe Capital. Otterbein. University of Cinci. I'm thinking a minor in jazz studies." Blaine shrugs and scoots his chair closer to the bed sinking down further into it trying with all of his might to bite back the moans and groans tickling at the back of his throat. He could seriously let Kurt do this all night.

"You want to teach?" Kurt's hands stop, resting on Blaine's shin, sitting there. Not moving. On Blaine's leg, warm and soft and—"Oh. Sorry." Kurt yanks his hand back and blushes.

"I do. I think? I mean, that's what everyone says to do to be safe." Blaine wiggles his toes hoping Kurt will get the hint to start again because he's itching for it. For his hands. Anywhere.

"Okay, no. Stop that mess right there." Santana sits back up and starts thrusting her finger into the air. "What do you want to do? What do you see? I'm so sick of people trying to throw logic into our dreams."

"Put 'em both up, Maynard. One more pass." Kurt lotions up again and runs his hands down Blaine's calf waiting for him to adjust to having both legs up on the bed.

"I see—unnnggg—Jesus. Um. I see. Right. There. Do that again. God." Blaine tosses his head back and lets out the most sexually satisfied sound he has ever uttered in his life as Kurt's thumbs press into the arch of his foot over and slowly over and so freaking magnificently over again. If she wants him to talk, she's crazy.

"I'll wait – see what I mean? Or- _gas-_ mic."

"Yes. Orgas—" Blaine sucks in a breath and his eyes pop open and he yanks his foot out of Kurt's hold. "Maybe—maybe we should call it a night with—with that."

"Are you okay?" Kurt catches Blaine's eye somehow because he surely couldn't look him directly in the eye on purpose right now and Blaine wants to die. On the spot. He's hard and he's hard and he's so fucking hard and unable to really breathe quite right and Santana is trying not to laugh but it looks like it just might cause her to stroke out and Kurt, poor Kurt simply looks confused. "Did I hurt you?"

"N—No. Not. No. I'm—what'd you ask me, Snix?" Blaine sits up, feet firmly on the ground and catches Kurt's concerned gaze again. "I promise. It was perfect. Too. Perfect. Really." Another gas-pained grin and he pleads for Santana to pick up the conversation again.

"Your future. Besides in a puddle on Kurt's floor. What do you see for your future?"

"Yes. Future. I see—well, now I see me teaching music by day. And then doing jazz gigs at night, because the truth is, unless you _are_ Maynard Ferguson, you can't make a living off of jazz gigs."

Kurt's been biting his bottom lip since Blaine abruptly ended the foot rub, a pink blush covering his cheeks and ears. It's adorable and worrisome because the last thing Blaine wants to do is make him uncomfortable. In his own home, no less. "You'd make an amazing teacher, Maynard."

"Thank you? What makes you think so?"

"Just how patient you are with your squad. When we were working with Snix on her breathing. How you check in with her all the time and remind her without making her feel like she's doing something wrong. You're a good encourager and I think that makes for a good teacher."

"Oh." Now Blaine's biting his bottom lip and blushing and he wonders what would happen if he put his feet back up on the bed. So he does. And then he's smiling because Kurt scoops them into his lap again and starts gently massaging them, not as intentional as before. Just a casual, I-like-having-you-here sort of touch. "Thank you. That means a lot coming from you."

"See? See!? That's what I mean. It's easy for you guys. You have these clear talents. Clear drive. Clear ideas and I type fast. And I want to live in New York. Oh, and I can do the splits in the air, on the ground, upside down and on a bed. With Brittany under me."

"Okay, I could have lived without that last—"

"Oh, give it up, Maynard. You've been sexually fantasizing all evening. My point is, I'm going to end up some lame-assed secretary or _office manager_ or something gross and—"

"Okay, what do _you_ see? What do you want?"

"New York. With—something. I don't know what. I just see me strutting my shit all over that city. Hell, I'll bartend. They make damned good money and? They can sleep in. I'm a great sleeper."

Blaine leans up and puts his hand on Kurt's stopping the delicious massage. "Thanks." He is starting to get worked up again and really, this conversation feels important. He climbs up onto the bed and grins. Friends. Real ones. He had them – he had plenty in Wapak, but in light of their silence since he moved, he figures his concerns there were real – they were really only there for the perks – the fancy house, the humongous screen TV, the pool – his was the party house. But these two? And Mike? And the others? Friends. Real ones. It feels amazing. "So, spill it. Tell me what is so alluring about New York City."

"What? Are you kidd—" Kurt is sitting up fully now too. His eyes are huge, his hands are winding up for a story. Or a list. And all Blaine can do is grin at him waiting to hear it unspool. "New York City is—it's paradise for the arts. Music and theater and dance and visual arts and fashion – oh my god, fashion!! It's everything Blaine. The food and the culture and the—the—"

"Rats. They have huge rats in New York City."

"Thank you, Snix. You're a huge help." Kurt turns back to Blaine as if Santana isn't even there, flailing away again.  "The traffic and bustle and Hollywood of it and I know it's New York, not Hollywood, but how can you _not_ want to go to New York? The jazz scene there, Maynard, oh my god – it's just—it's made for people like us!"

Kurt's eyes are still full and round and shining in the dim light of his room. The sun has fully set and no one's bothered to turn on more than the small bedside lamp. The room is cozy, Kurt is electric and Santana sits with them, vibrating with excitement over the simple, unprocessed dream of it all. It's intoxicating. "They do have a pretty amazing jazz scene there, don't they?"

"And Maynard, you could teach anywhere. Hell, teach jazz and then go play it." Kurt stills finally and looks at Blaine. Really looks at him, if not into him and sighs with what feels like a sadness. "You told me last weekend, but have you really, really never even considered leaving Ohio?"

"No. Not—not until last weekend. And I started—" Blaine looks down into his lap and smiles, grinning even brighter when he looks back up. "I started looking into it a little. I don't know if Dad would pay for out-of-state tuition or not, but—"

"Have you _heard_ yourself play? Scholarships, Maynard. You get good grades, don't you?"

"Yeah. Came here with a 4.2."

Kurt looks at him like all of his questions should now be answered. Like it's a matter of filling out an application and flying to New York and making a life and _voilà_. There it all is. "Two years in Ohio – march with me. And then—"

"Go to New York. With you."

"Well. I mean." Kurt starts and stops a few times, looking embarrassed at his presumptuous statement. "Not _with_ me, but. You know. It'd be easier if there was someone going along. Alone in New York doesn't sound nearly as exciting."

"Oh for the love of—you two need to just stop patsying around and get _on_ with it. I'm going downstairs to refill glasses."

And before either Kurt or Blaine can respond, she's out of the room, leaving them both there on the bed, somehow scooting closer together so their knees are touching and their thoughts are colliding and Blaine thinks that maybe, just maybe Santana has a point. Surely Kurt has felt the tension between them all evening.

"I'm sorry. She's—she gets tunnel vision sometimes and—"

"It's okay, Kurt. I'm going to talk to Mom about New York as an option – it's not like we have to decide now if we're going to stay here for a few more years, right?"

"Right. I'm not being pushy, am I? I just—you're good and you could do so much more out of here and—"

"No. It's fine. You're opening ideas I'd never allowed myself to consider. I figured I'd stick by Mom, you know? But now that she's rid of Dad, she's good. She'll be okay."

"It'd kill her if she thought you were holding back because of her."

"I know." Blaine stands and grabs night clothes from his bag and points to the bathroom to make sure it's okay he goes in first. "Besides, I'd hate to think this is the only year I'd have to get to know you."

**~~~**~~~**

_Rachel [08-28-11 3:09 am]: I'm giving up boys._

"Whose phone is that?" Santana rolls back and smushes Kurt who groans and rolls away smushing Blaine. The Kurt burrito was great as the shell, Blaine reasoned, but at the moment, it was a little—suffocating.

"Mine. Dammit." Kurt rolls over and Blaine's face is right. There. "Hi. Um. Sorry." He hikes up on an elbow and reaches across Blaine and Blaine takes a deep breath. Kurt smells of sleep and fabric softener with just a hint of cologne – just like his pillow at band camp – only better. When Kurt offers an awkward smile when he falls back onto the bed, Blaine remembers to let out his breath. "Oh shit, guys. It's Rachel. We've been waiting for a drunk text."

Everyone flops over onto their stomachs and focuses in on Kurt's phone.

_Kurt [08-28-11 3:12 am]: Oooh – that means more for me!_

"Nice. You've been drooling over your step-brother?"

Santana cracks up and Kurt smacks her arm. "Maynard, you don't even want to _know_ that story. But, I'll tell you if you suck on Kiki's ear lobe while you're lying there breathing into it."

"N—No. That's. I'm fine, thank you." Blaine side-eyes Kurt and Kurt ignores him, swiping his phone when Rachel replies.

_Rachel [08-28-11 3:14am]: I don’t thunk my boys wll work 4 u._

_Kurt [08-28-11 3:14am]: Okay, I'll bite. Why are you giving up boys?_

"Is she really drunk?"

"Guaranteed. Didn't Puck have some gathering going on tonight, too?"

"Yep. It's where Nini is."

"I'm honored you chose us, Snix." Kurt kisses her cheek and she groans, pushing him away.

"I was avoiding Berry. And now I see why."

Kurt taps his phone waiting for Rachel's reply. Blaine is falling asleep again – his head droops onto Kurt's shoulder. She doesn't respond for quite some time and in his half-awake – half-asleep state, Blaine thinks that's just fine.

_Rachel [08-28-11 3:22am]: Had to throw up. Tequila comgni back up is worse than gogin dwon._

_Kurt [08-28-11 3:23am]: You're a class act, Rachel. Why are you giving up boys? Because clearly you're of sound mind._

_Rachel [08-28-11 3:25am]: One word. Lucy. Quinn. Fabray._

_Kurt [08-28-11 3:25am]: That's three words._

"Kiki, don't poke the drunk girl."

"But, it's fun. And what is it with her and Quinn, but only when she's drunk?"

"Seriously, Quinn's delicious when sober."

Kurt and Blaine both snapped a look at that, Kurt's eyes bugging out. "What? Have you—how could you not _tell_ me!?"

"Just once. Twice. One night. Shut up. I think you woke the dead." She glances back at Blaine and cackles. He knows he's comical looking. His hair is probably all over the place, he can feel his eyelids drooping and he's sure he has a dopey, lovesick look on his face. Because Kurt smells and feels delicious – speaking of delicious – and he's right here in the same bed with him, under his lazily tossed leg.

"I am not dead. Just comfortable." Blaine snuggles into Kurt's shoulder more and mumbles, "Quinn's pretty."

_Rachel [08-28-11 3:27am]: Yes. 3 wrods. 1 prblem. 2 probems. She hates me._

_Kurt [08-28-11 3:28am]: She doesn't hate you. She probably just doesn't – what is it you want with her exactly?_

_Rachel [08-28-11 3:31am]: OMG, I just burped so loud I thnk I woke Puck's dog. I want her bbies. To haver them._

_Kurt [08-28-11 3:32am]: Tell me you're not there alone with Puck. I will come pick you up._

_Rachel [08-28-11 3:35am]: I am not alone with Puck. There r five-ish – I can't see to count – ppl in the den with me._

_Kurt [08-28-11 3:36am]: Including Quinn._

_Rachel [08-28-11 3:37am]: Inculnig Quinn._

"Tell her not to give up boys. Just to find a new one."

"Maynard, I cannot tell a drunk Rachel that. She will be on our doorstep and no one will know how she got here and? She won't leave. Sobbing. She'll be sobbing. No."

"Okay. Your shoulder is nice."

"Go back to sleep, Maynard."

"Can't. Need to spoon you."

"Hurry it up, Kiki – he's right. Need to spoon and you're our middle man. Get on with it."

_Kurt [08-28-11 3:40am]: Rachel, go to sleep. You'll see things clearly in the morning. Like the fact that biologically, you cannot have Quinn's babies. And that you both prefer boys._

_Rachel [08-28-11 3:41am]: I think I need to thorw up again. Bye!?_

"I do not get paid enough to be her friend." Kurt tosses his phone onto the night stand and curls back up to Santana, and Blaine waits until he's all settled before he locks himself in place behind Kurt.

"You can be our friend for free, Kiki."

And in the morning, when Blaine gets up with his friends, all stiff and sore from sleeping in the same position all night long, he languishes in the heavenly breakfast Carole cooked for them. He reluctantly says his goodbyes when his mom starts bombing his phone with lists of things they had to accomplish on _the one day we have together a week, Blaine. Get home._

He steps outside, flinging his bag over his shoulder, his sandals slung over a finger as he digs for his car keys. Coming up victorious, he grins as he gets a sweeping glance at his toenails.

_Charged Up Cherry._

In that moment, with the summer sun beating down on him and the memories of Kurt's hands on his feet and legs, Kurt's body under his arm and their legs tangled together as they slept, the memory of Santana's belly laugh when Blaine fussed and then grinned at his bright pink toe nails, he knows beyond all doubt that this is what happiness feels like.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

It isn't until the Friday night after the sleepover when Kurt can even begin to think clearly. It took every ounce of his self-control, of his non-existent acting skills, of his will power to even _pretend_ to come close to being calm, cool and collected when Blaine's bare feet rested in his hands. When he could splay his fingers over the muscles in Blaine's calves and feel the hair tickling at his skin. When Blaine's body was pressed behind him in the bed, warm, comforting, snuggling in closer at every opportunity. When Blaine grinned like a kid who just won the ring toss at a carnival as Santana painted his toenails bright pink. 

So, it's not even a little disappointing as he stands in the middle of the pre-game-buzz-busy band room running his fingers through Blaine's hair getting it gelled and pinned back for his hat that all of those breathless, stirring, gut-spinning feelings come tumbling back again. It had been – he looks up at the clock and sighs – maybe twelve hours. He's been calm for only twelve hours.

"Shit. I forgot to wash my gloves." Blaine leans over for his gig bag hissing when Kurt hasn't let go of his hair, pulling it in his fingers. 

He might have been a little zoned out daydreaming. About—hair. And pulling.

"Sorry." Kurt waits and wipes the extra gel off his fingers before popping a few bobby pins in his mouth, talking around them. "Buy another pair. I buy new ones every week."

"Why?" With a huff, Blaine sits back up and bounces his leg nervously. "Aren't they three bucks? That's lunch."

"First," Kurt pulls the bobby pins out of his mouth to make his point, "the fact that you're buying lunch here is a grave disappointment. I think they manufacture the manufactured soy beans they use to make the hamburgers. And second, just have it charged to your account."

"Then Mom has to pay it and—"

"Oh. Well, you're going to have to start buying more anyway so you can layer when it gets colder." Kurt gives up shoving the pins back into his mouth and hands Blaine the card of them, wordlessly showing him how to hold it so he can just grab and work.

"We can't just wear normal gloves when we're not playing?"

" _Full_ uniform, Maynard. Have you not gotten that mess—"

"I got the message. Loud and freaking – ow! Shit, what are you _doing_ up there – clear."

"Sorry – you keep fidgeting and you're super tangled today. Just sit the hell still." Kurt puts a few more pins in and walks in front of Blaine to check his work, tucking one errant curl up into a pin. "Close your eyes." He sprays his hair heavily and pats it all down one more time. "I can bring in my extras from last year."

"Are they clean enough for inspection?"

"Yeah, I just toss 'em in a sink full of bleach and water. Besides, the way you shine that horn of yours, I can't imagine they'd get too grimy week to week."

"Wait 'til you see my horn next week. Blinding finish. Makes this one look like a toy."

"You have something _better_ than your Strad?"

"Yeah, I compete with my Monette – concert season too."

"And yet, he can't buy you $3 gloves every week."

"I know. I quit asking questions a long time ago. Saves on aspirin too."

"God. I'll bring you my old ones. I have last week's pair you can use tonight."

"Thanks." Blaine reaches up to touch his hair and accidentally pops a bobby pin out. A spring of curl jumps away from his head as if it's trying to escape. "Shit. Sorry."

"Why so jittery?"

Blaine sighs and crosses his eyes at the curl that's now dangling in the middle of his forehead. "Dad might come tonight."

Kurt stops fussing with Blaine's hair to look at him. He's jittery everywhere. "We're not even doing our duet."

"I know. So if he's here, he's going to wonder what I'm doing at McKinley – he encouraged Mom to choose this district for the music program and—"

"If he doesn't see you center stage—" With the final errant curl properly pinned, Kurt stands and appraises his work. Blaine looks like a dork. But he'll pass inspection.

"Exactly. The initial _if he's going to insist on staying in band, make it a good program_ will suddenly become _if they're not going to utilize that Anderson talent then he might as well come back to Wapak._ " He fixes to run a hand through his curls and stops himself with a huff. "I don't want to go back."

"I don't want you to go back." Kurt plops down on the seat next to him, his heart racing when he sees Blaine's furrowed brow and a leg bouncing up and down. He moves before he thinks, resting his hand on Blaine's bouncing thigh. "He wouldn't really – would he?"

Blaine's nervous smile makes Kurt's heart beat even faster. 

"I think Mom would fight it now. I just—I'm just not in the mood for it tonight. I want to play and screw around during the game and go out with you guys afterwards and—"

"Then that's what we'll do. If you want to stay in the stands for 3 rd quarter break to avoid seeing him, we can."

"No. I'm not hiding from him. This is my life now. I’m happy. I'm really—god, I had such a great time last weekend and I'm enjoying my classes – minus Trig – and I lived through reading that horrible poem and there's you—"

Kurt sucks in his breath as soon as Blaine's eyes snap down to investigate a small pull on his marching trousers. "— _andeveryoneelse_ and—" Blaine looks up to meet Kurt's gaze, full, round eyes with a hint of fire in them. "He's _not_ making me go back." He scoffs. "In fact, he probably won't even show up."

"I don’t even know what to say."

"Say you have my hat and put it on me so I can get my head in the game."

"I have your hat." Kurt plucks it from the box and gingerly places it on Blaine's head, grinning when Blaine crosses his eyes to focus on the small bill as it lowers on his head. "You're a goof."

"Let's go kick some ass."

**~~~**~~~**

_Blaine [09-03-11 3:03am]: What is a Titan anyway?_

_Kurt [09-03-11 3:04am]: This is what keeps you up at night?_

_Blaine [09-03-11 3:05am]: I drank too fucking much caffeine at the pizza place. You were supposed to stop me._

_Kurt [09-03-11 3:06am]: I didn't know you needed a babysitter._

_Blaine [09-03-11 3:06am]: Just admit you don’t know what a Titan is – then we can both go back to not sleeping._

_Kurt [09-03-11 3:07am]: The offspring of Uranus. And who says I wasn't sleeping?_

_Blaine [09-03-11 3:09am]: You answered right away. And you're making that up._

_Kurt [09-03-11 3:09am]: google.com, asshole._

_Blaine [09-03-11 3:12am]: Our school mascot is a child of Ur.Anus. And shouldn't that have been google.com, anus? Or, am I taking this theme too far?_

_Kurt [09-03-11 3:13am]: Yes. Ur. Anus. My. Anus. Everyone's. Anus. One can never go too far with anuses._

_Kurt [09-03-11 3:14am]: And now I'm thinking of everyone's ass. These are largely unpleasant thoughts, Maynard._

_Blaine [09-03-11 3:15am]: Asses aren't bad. Anuses are…well. I mean._

_Kurt [09-03-11 3:16am]: Oh my god. I'm turning off my phone. I can't believe I typed any of this out loud._

_Blaine [09-03-11 3:16am]: Don't act so pristine. We're gay. Anuses are part of the party._

_Kurt [09-03-11 3:17am]: Because we know every gay man loves a butt party._

_Blaine [09-03-11 3:17am]: Wait. You're not into—I mean. Oh. Sorry._

_Kurt [09-03-11 3:18am]: We're having this conversation at 3am? Give me a minute._

_Blaine [09-03-11 3:18am]: No. I mean. Shit. No. I was just being a jackass b/c I couldn't sleep. You don't. We… I'll leave you to sleep._

_Kurt [09-03-11 3:19am]: No, let's do this. You're my friend. You're gay. I've never had anyone to talk to about this stuff before._

_Kurt [09-03-11 3:22am]I…have no idea what I'm into. I know that the idea intrigues me and that I enjoy gay porn and I think that's all I'd like to say at the moment._

_Blaine [09-03-11 3:23am]: Same. Which, sorry – cop out. But yes. Same. You've never…_

_Kurt {09-03-11 3:24am]: Not with someone, no. I've tried—I'm shutting up._

_Blaine [09-03-11 3:25am]: Right. I just thought. You and Santana talk so freely and I assumed. Wow. Okay. Me either._

_Kurt [09-03-11 3:27am]: And now I don't know what to do with this information._

_Blaine [09-03-11 3:28am]: Go Titans?_

_Kurt [09-03-11 3:29am]: Those cute little ur.Anus babies._

_Blaine [09-03-11 3:31am]: Mom's pissed Dad didn't come tonight._

_Kurt [09-03-11 3:31am]: Are you?_

_Kurt [09-13-11 3:32am]: And be proud I didn't go with the "from one asshole to another" joke._

_Blaine [09-03-11 3:33am]: I'm more pissed I wasted rehearsal and game prep time being stressed out about it. And Mom said she'd give me money for gloves. Sorry to mooch off of you._

_Blaine [09-13-11 3:34am]: Not proud. Disappointed. I left that door wide open for you._

_Kurt [09-03-11 3:35am]: You weren't mooching. You can…any time, okay?_

_Blaine [09-03-11 3:36am]: Yes. Okay. Practice Sunday?_

_Kurt [09-03-11 3:37am]: Can't wait._

_Blaine [09-03-11 3:37am]: I'm going to assume you weren't using a sarcastic font and say 'me either.'_

_Kurt [09-03-11 3:38am]: No sarcastic font. I missed our duet tonight._

_Blaine [09-03-11 3:39am]: Me too._

**~~~**~~~**

"Watch your diagonals, woodwinds!! Front to back, side to side! Perfect step—no. No, no, _no_. Disco, cut 'em off." 

Artie stops the band and brings them back a few charts to start again. It's the afternoon before their first competition and as is typical before competitions, Jonesy is in a mood. Kurt wants to shove her headpiece up her—anus.

"Kiki! Maynard! Line up those trumpets – since when is this chart a freeform?"

Kurt lowers his horn and takes a breath before spinning on the ball of his feet to turn to his section and line them up again. And then he sees she has a right to be pissed off. "I see _four_ of you in the proper spot. Four. Out of 20. Did someone miss the memo that we compete in _five hours_?"

While Jonesy continues verbally pounding other section leaders, Kurt begins physically moving people into their proper places. Blaine follows suit with his half of the section and when finished, Kurt tosses a warning glare to the lot of them and turns back to the tower. "I think we're ready now, Jonesy."

"Yeah. Except no. Fun block. Parade line-up. Front row on the 20. There is _no_ excuse for the marching mistakes I'm seeing."

"Shit." The _fun_ in _fun block_ is for fundamentals. Never for _fun_.

"You care to run rehearsals differently, Mr. Hummel?"

"No, Jonesy. Row D, E, F trumpets, let's go!"

Everyone shuffles to their spot and Jonesy yells again. "You all in a hurry or something? MOVE!" They pick up the pace as little as they can get away with. It's not the August heat any longer, but September in Ohio means any weather is possible. 

Today, the weather is impossibly hot and they're rehearsing in _half-dress_. Band pants – made of wool, suspenders – made of ugly, and band t-shirts – blessedly made of white cotton. Their feet are swathed in impermeable vinyl shoes, heads topped with uniform hats without plumes, and hands, sadly covered with gloves. 

It's 85 degrees and completely miserable.

Beaman's voice blasts through the miniature sound system with a list of commands they must memorize and execute. Perfectly. 

"Ten yards 8-to-5, right flank. 10 yards 16-to-5, slide right lateral. 10 yards 12-to-5, right flank. 4-count _left_ turn, mark time 8, step-halt-kick-down." She repeats the directions and monotonously adds, "Does anyone need that repeated?"

Even when a third of the band moans, "Yesssss," Artie blows the whistle, the snare ticks off a beat and they begin, marching and counting. Section and squad leaders shout out reminders and commands – _hold  the line!_ or _spacing, spacing! Watch your spacing_! When it's over the band is no longer in a block of any kind – students are a scattered, lines are skewed and tempers are rumbling to a flare.

"Inexcusable. Block it on the 20 again! Beaman, send up another set."

And she does. And this time it's better. But, not good enough. So, she sends up a third. And this one is much better, minus a few strays, everyone staying true to their block formation – lines straight, diagonals sure. 

They start the show from the top. Which, honestly pleases no one because now they're hot and sweaty and exhausted and they haven't even boarded the busses for competition yet – no less warmed up – or amped up with nerves before the performance.

"Okay, full run-through, no _Show_ duet. Kiki, Maynard, just pull back and watch your section's drill. Save your chops. All other featured solos play, however."

"No _Sh—_ Jonesy, can I respectfully request that you reconsider?" Kurt shakes his head at Blaine, appalled that she'd even suggest skipping it. "We'll play _sotto voce_. We both know how to prepare for a show—"

"I'm sure you do. The answer is no. Reset top!"

Kurt huffs and goes to his spot, finding a smile somewhere inside himself when Blaine's head droops forward to rest on his back waiting for Artie's starting whistle. 

"Is she always this wicked before a competition?"

"Yep."

"Really makes me want to give 100 percent."

"Okay, guys. We can't let this rehearsal get us down! Let's do it!" Artie starts them and miraculously, it runs smoothly. Kurt offers Santana a wink as they pass in a formation and at the end of _Bicycle_ , the second full song of the set, everyone surreptitiously reaches to various places on their horns to hidden, attached bicycle bells, ringing them soundly to end the song and segue into _Show_. 

"Can't you ring those things louder? They sound like toys. Louder! Come on! Louder!!"

Kurt tosses a look to Blaine who is biting his lip, all the while pushing at the lever to ring his stupid bell. His shoulders shake with stifled laughter and his eyes close as if praying prayers his grandmother taught him at church. 

"She does know there is no way to control the volume of these things, right?"

"She does know they _are_ toys, right?"

Santana sums it all up perfectly. "The woman has finally lost her mind."

"As soon as your trumpet leaders are done planning the overthrow of the British Empire we'll continue."

"No coup today, Your Highness. We're good."

**~~~**~~~**

"Snix? Honey. You're peaked. What's up?" They are lined up outside of the stands, waiting for the previous band in the competition to finish. It's nerve-wracking hearing them and the way Jonesy arranges it, their backs are turned, so they can see nothing. 

It's all a head game at this point – attention should be on their own program and no one else's. Kurt is doing one quick walk-through his section to make sure everyone is good. Tuned in. Attentive. Centered. 

But, Santana is wobbly at best.

"I think I might pass out."

"Seriously? Sit down, then." Kurt puts an arm around her and moves to seat her on the ground, but she resists. 

"No. Jonesy'll have a conniption."

"Better that than you pass out. Didn't you eat?"

"I ate, Hummel. Oh my god. You have no idea, do you?"

He blinks at her in confusion. "Apparently not."

"I have to go out there and play for – how many people are here? I knew I shouldn't have let you talk me into this."

"You've played it for football games – you kick this solo's ass."

"Mike kicks this duet's ass. I just sort of – set the foundation for it."

"Oh, shut up." He passes his trumpet to an underclassman, lifting an eyebrow in warning before letting go. "It's my Strad. Drop it and _die_."

"Yes, sir."

Cupping Santana's face in his hands, he leans in close, bumping their hats and plumes together, demanding eye contact with the brush of his thumb over her cheek. "You have come so far this season. You have a solo. You're killing it every time you play it. Your sound is crystal clear. You are the best squad leader I could ask for. And you're _my_ best friend which means you're beyond fabulous."

Santana closes her eyes and reaches out for Blaine's hand when he sneaks up beside them to quietly assist in the pep talk. "What if I blow it?"

"Then you blow it. And a blown solo has never affected ratings. You'll get reamed in the comments, you'll fix it and do better at our next competition."

"And then I'll die."

"Oh stop. I'm the drama queen around here." Kurt kisses the tip of her nose and steps back, adjusting his hat and then hers. "I'm not giving up that role any time soon, so you'd just better get over it and go out there and knock 'em dead."

"And breathe from my cootch."

"And breathe from your cootch." He takes his horn back and chuckles at Blaine, who still blushes every time they say the word _cootch._ "You good now?"

"I'm good." With a  deep cleansing breath she squares herself back into her parade block position.

Kurt demands eye contact one more moment. "You're amazing."

"I'm amazing."

"Band…atten-HUT!"

"HUT!"

Kurt and Blaine scurry to their spots and Finn whispers a _hup-hup-hup._ The band moves in sync into the stadium to the sideline, whispered directions guiding the underclassmen who are bug-eyed with nerves and bound to forget basic details. On the line, they are silent, breathing deeply, hiding any fidgets and nerves beneath thrumming energy waiting for the judges in the press box to give them their final command.

"McKinley High School. You may begin your pre-placement and/or warm-up."

Artie rolls across the field to his lift at the opposing side-line as the guard runs behind him dropping flags into their proper spots. 

Just before the snare taps begin signaling a move into their positions, Blaine dares lean just a little to his right, bumping Kurt's elbow. "Meet you at the 50."

Kurt stares straight ahead and grins, nodding his head, his plume wobbling in the breeze. "Meet you at the 50."

**~~~**~~~**

Kurt can never pinpoint what his favorite part of performing is, and while he's in the middle of the high, he's not sure he wants to be focusing on it anyway. But, when it's over, in those short moments between the gathering immediately following a performance to hear Jonesy's initial reaction and piling back onto the buses to change into partial uniforms for the awards ceremony – when no one is talking and everyone is in their own head – he's not sure he could say. 

Is it the rush of putting yourself out there after so many months of work, the immediate feedback from the live audience? Is it the feeling of family and teamwork and friendship that surrounds him physically and emotionally as they all play toward the same goal, even if their notes are different, their movements varied yet all, somehow, in perfect synchronicity? Is it the moments of escape when all he can see, hear, think, feel is the music – the taste of his mouthpiece? The smell of the freshly mowed grass under his feet and, in the distance, the deliciously chemical whiff of spicy meat warming for the always-desired Marching Tacos from the concession stand?

Is it, this year anyway, the moment his solo begins – lyric and melancholy – such a perfect expression of his high school years thus far? Is it when his first verse is finished and the band joins him, filling in harmonies to his melodic solo – making him feel, momentarily, like the star of the show. The center. The leader he waited so patiently to be. Or is it when he feels Blaine approaching as the first chorus comes to an end with not a hint of acknowledgment – as has been choreographed – but with just the slightest nudge of his shoulder, they are a team. Kurt's pulled lyricism, Blaine's crisp guitar-like notes dotting up and over the ribbon of sound that Kurt puts forth. He fought it and he fought it hard, but he cannot deny they sound amazing together. 

Or maybe, it is all of those things – the sweat and the energy and the joy that bursts from one hundred fifty teenagers as they line up for the final company front, marching in line, in step, in perfect musical harmony with horns to the box, sound through the non-existent roof as they push push _push_ to the end and then – that glorious moment when their last note sounds and the band-wide, deep, guttural "HUAH!" rings through the stands—

And then the crowd. The crowd goes _wild_. It's a show catered to them - familiar music from their youth, a drum break that showcases precision, skill and musicianship with rhythm and choreographed stick tricks, talented soloists, and yes a cliché – yet always effective – company front to bring it all home. 

It is. It is all of these things and Kurt hopes he never, _ever_ tires of it. Never forgets it. 

These are some of the best moments he's ever experienced. 


	19. Chapter Eighteen

Blaine has never held a Grand Championship trophy before. He's seen plenty of them – going to other bands, of course.  Class C bands never receive Grand Champion unless there are only other C bands in the competition. It's a pretty unfair system, the larger bands usually taking the top honors.

But, now he's in a larger band. A Class AA band, and tonight they receive top honors. Top over all of the other AA bands. All of the other A bands. All of the 18 bands that competed in all class levels. In addition, they received straight I's – or straight Superior ratings. Nine judges felt their show was, to quote the Ohio Music Educators Association guidelines, "An outstanding performance, with very few errors." They have automatically qualified to compete at State Finals and Blaine has never had that experience either.

He never thought he'd be grateful his dad was such a jackass, but in this moment of jubilation, of great relief and celebration, he finds himself chuckling at the idea of it. Because if his mom hadn't caught the man with his pants down – literally – Blaine would still be carrying the entire 55 voice band in Wapakoneta, Ohio. Heading nowhere.

"What's got you so tickled?" Kurt leans into him as they're seated together on the bench seat of the school bus. The ride from Ada High School is bumpy and dark, mostly country roads with ditches created by years of combines and tractors ruling the path. Blaine is quite enjoying it, taking every bump as an opportunity to inch just a little closer.

And Kurt doesn't seem to be resisting, watching Blaine run his fingers along the columns of the trophy. It's huge – they always are – four feet tall and about as cheap as the vinyl on their marching shoes which neither of them can wait to slip out of. But, it's theirs. They earned it.

"I was just thanking my dad for being a philandering pig. You know, the usual."

"What?" Kurt pulled back and Blaine laughed as realization dawned. "Oh—because you're here?"

"Because I'm here. That was incredible tonight. We were incredible. All of us."

"Yeah, especially for our first one. End of season I don’t think we'll get away with some of the errors though."

"Oh god. Are you one of those? You're analyzing the entire thing in your head already, aren't you?"

"Yes? How else are we going to get better?"

"We can just float on the high first?" Blaine grabs the trophy and lifts it up, cheers filling the bus as it rises and gently knocks the roof. "We got a freaking larger-than-life trophy!"

"Okay, okay." Kurt laughs and pulls the trophy down so Blaine doesn't knock the poor little metal band dude off the top of it. "You're going to kill someone with that thing."

"Am not."

"You are such a child."

"Am not."

"Oh my god. You win. Tonight, we celebrate. Tomorrow we sleep—"

"I cannot _wait_ to do that."

"And Monday, we analyze."

Blaine rests his head on Kurt's shoulder and grins when Kurt scrunches down into the seat, propping his knees up on the back of the seat in front of them, resting his head on Blaine's. "I could skip the celebrating and move right to the sleeping."

The bus hits a pot hole big enough to swallow it whole and Blaine reconsiders. "Or, maybe I'll just _think_ about sleeping."

~~~**~~~

"Comments tonight or Monday, band? What'll it be?"

The answers clearly divide the band, some wanting to just go home and sleep already and others anxious to hear the specifics of what the judges said about their performance. "Disco. You decide. Now or Monday?"

"Let's hear it now. 'Dis gon' be goooood."

Santana plops on the floor between Kurt and Blaine's chairs where they've been picking bobby pins out of their hair, tossing them into a plastic container, cheering when one would go in. Which wasn't often. "You guys need booze to do it right."

"At this rate, I'd be blotto."

"My point exactly, Maynard. Blotto sounds like a dream right about now."

"I already feel hungover. Let's not make it worse."

Beaman starts reading the percussion judges sheet, solely to shoot pointed looks at her section when they say something that she's been ragging on them from the beginning of the season. Which isn't often because he happened to be impressed. In fact, the percussion section had also come in first place of all the bands competing. As had the guard. And the general effects scores. And the visual effects scores.

All but music, which was taken by Piqua – a class A band. It was the one pock mark on the evening.

"Did you see me almost plow into that damned percussion judge though?" Blaine picked out one final bobby pin and cheered, sinking back down into his chair when he got a glare from Jonesy.

"No. When?" Kurt huddles down to whisper and Santana leans back, draping an arm over each of their thighs that she's sitting between.

"Right before I meet up with you. I stepped out of line—" Blaine looks up to the front to make sure they're not being noticed and continues when the coast is clear, "and took maybe three steps. He almost walked right into my damned horn."

"Oh shit –what'd you do? Did you go against the chart?"

"I meeped."

"You what?" Santana lolls her head back and looks at him like he's crazy.

"Mee-meep. Like Roadrunner."

Between his Roadrunner imitation, Kurt's snort, Santana's cackle and the shuffle of anyone sitting near them to see what was going on, they most definitely were no longer in the clear coast seating.

"Mr. Anderson—"

"Fuck."

"Do I blame the Wapakoneta educational system for your lack of manners?"

"No, no. Sorry. My apologies ma'am—Jonesy. Jonesy Ma'am." He grins at Beaman for no clear reason while Santana and Kurt practically hold each other up trying not to laugh out loud. "Beaman. Ma'am." And then sinks back into his seat as low as he can. "I give. We need booze."

They finally get themselves settled – until Kurt randomly "mee-meeps" and the giggles start again. The truth is, the comments from the judges are getting sort of boring. It's the first competition of the season. They're going easy. The band was well-prepared. There just isn't much to say of any worth.

_Nice sound. Pull that phrase out more. Excellent maneuver percussion. Watch your spacing clarinets. Beautiful flags – beautiful effect._

_Nice, rich tone on the mellophone/trumpet duet._

Which earns Santana a kiss on each cheek and a _mee-meep_ to spare.

And then, the fun and the giggles and the flapping hands to stave off getting caught comes to an abrupt halt.

"…my only major musical concern was with the trumpet duet in _The Show Must Go On_ ," Jonesy reads.

"Wait. What?" Blaine and Kurt sit up, and a hush falls over the entire band. "Us? Is that—"

Kurt lifts a finger to shush Blaine and leans in, his demeanor going from alert to agitated when Jonesy looks up and grins the evil _gotcha_ way that only teachers can. "Ah. I thought that might get your full attention, gentlemen. I'll continue."

"Oh hell." Blaine drapes his arm along the back of Kurt's chair and dares to rub his hand along Kurt's shoulder blade. He's not sure who he's comforting more, Kurt or himself, but since Kurt doesn't seem to mind – or even notice – he keeps at it.

_You have two of the finest trumpet players I've had the pleasure of judging in quite some time. Your soloist – lyric, controlled, musical – definitely has great command over the instrument and the score he's playing from. Simply stunning. Your countermelody – range beyond his years, improvisational skills some professionals would envy, an athleticism in his approach and like your soloist – great command over the instrument he's playing and the score inside his head. The problem is – and it's early enough in the game to fix – that while individually they are splendid, they have the common mistake of playing at the same time, but not together._

_Balance and blend in music; stand out in life._

_There is a unity missing in their song, and for that reason, Jonesy, I'm not going to be able to give you the 85/90 points I was originally intending. Eighty points tonight. Congratulations on your Superior Rating and a fine, enjoyable show. Good luck this season._

A long silence covers the band room and Kurt slowly raises his hand. "Jonesy, if I may? What was our combined music score?"

"164."

"And Piqua's?"

"168."

Silence again and then, from the clarinet section, "So if you two asshats weren't so busy mentally jacking each other off, we'd have had enough to take the music trophy home too."

Kurt is up like a flash and Blaine grabs for his arm, which he yanks away, firing off his outrage anyway. "And what, dearest Nate, do _you_ contribute to this fine organization? Huh?"

"Kurt, stop. He's not worth—"

Kurt shoots a glare down to Blaine and his heart stops. In all the anger Kurt tossed his way earlier in the summer, nothing compares to the look he's getting now. It's no longer laden with fear or worry. It's pure, unadulterated fury.

But before Kurt can say anything, Jonesy's voice is ringing throughout the band room. Blaine doesn't know when she got over to Nate, but she is there, her hand firmly on his shoulder, fingertips white with effort to hold him still – to make her point. "Kiki, open your mouth again and laps will be greeting you at sectionals on Monday. Nate, you owe me 20. You're lucky I'm too tired to make you do them tonight."

Kurt sits down in the chair closest to him, no longer near Blaine. When Santana makes a move to come close, he scowls and she retreats, whispering to Blaine. "He'll cool. Just leave him be."

"Is everyone under control now?" Jonesy pointedly looks at Kurt and he nods, still visibly seething. "Excellent, you all were amazing tonight. I'm proud of each and every one of you. You can pick up your state qualifying hoodies Monday after school. Have a good weekend. Band…dis _missed!_ "

The mood in the room, while celebratory at first, has sunk to purely dismal. Chairs scratch across the tile floor, bags shuffle and bump, instrument cages crash and clang and no one really says anything to anybody. For a Grand Championship night, it's all off and Blaine sits in his seat in the middle of the room taking it all in, wondering what went wrong. They received honors he's never had before, but because of one missed trophy – just one—

It makes no sense.

He finally stands to gather his belongings, looking around for Kurt to resurface from the instrument room. When he doesn't, he gives up and heads out, not wanting to make Brittany wait any longer than necessary to take him home.

As the huge metal door slams behind him, Blaine sees Kurt loading his trumpet into the trunk of his car. When he hears the beep of his doors unlocking, Blaine kicks into a jog to get to him before he leaves.

"Kiki! Wait up!"

Kurt looks up and sighs, opening his car door and stopping when Blaine arrives as he is about to sit. "Just go home, Maynard."

"I don't want to go home with you angry with me, especially when I don’t know why."

Kurt tosses his keys into the car and steps outside his door, crossing his arms and leaning against it. "You know, when _Nate_ gets it better than you do, it might be time to tune in a bit more."

"Nate? He—he was just being an obnoxious prick. I think that's the only complete sentence I've heard him utter."

"And it was a powerful one, don't you think? I mean, here you are all—all cute and flirty and let's be best friends and trust me trust me trust me and I bought it. I bought every little bit of it and let you in – even though deep down I knew it was stupid and all it did—" Kurt stops and regroups, pulling himself up straighter, his chin tight and lifted, his gaze piercing. "All it did was make us lose focus on what we were supposed to be doing and that—that was _not_ being sloppy and undisciplined. And _clearly_ that’s what we were tonight."

Blaine tries very hard not to concentrate on the fact that Kurt just called him cute and flirty and really, with the fire in Kurt's eyes, he'd be an idiot to do so.

Sometimes he's an idiot.

But, he hones in on the part where Kurt calls him sloppy and undisciplined, and as if someone hits the rewind button on their season, they are right back where they started months ago.

And he's pissed.

"Sl—sloppy and undisciplined? Really? I hit every note dead center tonight and you know it. You fucking _know_ it. You're just jealous you don't have it in you." Kurt pulls back and Blaine blinks back the hurt that he just might have caused, plowing forward. "That—that you can't just go in the moment and change up the music a little and sway with the crowd. No, you have to do exactly what the score says, completely rigid and unwavering. You ignore what might be inside of you or god forbid, what might be inside of _me_ so we could actually sound like a unified team."

_Oh_. That is in there. And bubbling. Apparently. And it sounds horrible and he means every word of it in this exact moment. And he's made Kurt even more angry now and this was not how the night was supposed to end at all, but he doesn't care because these kinds of outbursts are getting old. And he'll be damned if he takes the fall for this.

"Yes, because _team_ is what it's all about for you, isn't it? While you're wailing away, blasting over _my_ part – making sure everyone knows the second-coming of dead, drug-addled Maynard Ferguson has arrived!" Kurt yanks his door open, pushing Blaine out of the way. "I knew everything felt too good to be true." He slams his door shut so quickly, Blaine's not even sure part of him isn't half in there with him – the ache of Kurt's words as sharp as if it was.

In seconds, Kurt's engine revs, he backs up and roars out of the parking lot.

Blaine stands there in a daze, unaware of the small group of band members who witnessed the entire thing, awkwardly fumbling to get into their own cars. Until Brittany is at his side, hooking her arm in his and walking him to her car to get in.

"What the fuck just happened?"

"Kurt had a fit. All over you." She flicks non-existent remains of the argument from his shoulder.

Blaine numbly settles into the car and stares straight ahead, not sure – not even caring – if he has all of his gear. "What are we—how are we supposed to make it work now?"

"I dunno Maynard, but there is a bright side."

"A bright—what? There is no bright side. We have the entire season in front of us and he—he really does hate me."

"Hey. Frodo." She pulls out of the lot and stops, waiting to turn onto the street while taking his hand in hers.

He looks down at their intertwined fingers and sighs. Grand Champion shouldn't feel this shitty. "What, Nini?"

"He called you cute. I might be kind of dumb, but—I think that's a win tonight."

Blaine can't help but crack the most faint of smiles. He doesn't know how he's going to repair the mess that's been made, but Brittany is right, as wrong as she usually is. "Yeah, he did. Now to get him to remember."

~~~**~~~

He hits Sunday morning running. Figuratively speaking. He's up before 8 am – which for a Sunday is early – and fixes himself a full breakfast, serving up two when his mom stumbles in wondering what domestic god has swept into her home.

The morning is cool, but he risks a swim, covering a few laps and then centering himself in the deepest portion of the pool, treading water and then sinking down to the bottom to sit as long as his breath will allow. He surfaces, treads again, controlling his breathing and sinks again, trying for longer and longer stays with each dunk.

After exhausting himself, he drags himself out, and showers, ignoring his mother's complaints of dripping pool water all the way through the house. It's water. It _dries_.

And then, when he's dressed, when his mom stops bitching, when he's double checked his Trig homework and made sure he's completed every problem and has the entirety of the day ahead of him, he gets out his Monette and polishes it. He cleans all of his mouthpieces, those from both horns, seven in total – some for jazz, some for concert season, some for marching and some because they came with the horns – all get equal treatment, even though his plan is to use just one. The 7C because dammit, he's not going to use tricks – he's going to earn this.

He collects all the printouts he made last night, researching trumpet tone quality, breathing exercises and etudes to help round out his sound, improve his middle range to match Kurt's rich quality more effortlessly. He checks his email to see if Mr. Orr, his trumpet teacher from the esteemed Dalton Academy, has responded with any further ideas. And he has. He prints those out as well and spreads everything out on his bed, setting his chair and music stand up just so and pulling out the first sheet of etudes.

And then he begins. Simple scales first, leaving Minear behind today. Today is not about stretching his range or about making his body produce notes that only a few trumpet players can do well. No, today is about becoming a rounded, full trumpet player. A team player.

Even if his teammate wants nothing to do with it. He's going to hold up his end of the partnership if it kills him.

And after three solid hours of practicing, he thinks it might do just that.

_Undisciplined. Sloppy. I'll show that son-of-a—god, he's even stunning when he's screaming at me like an enraged badger._

_Focus, Maynard._

He eats lunch, his mother asks how much longer he's going to practice. He shrugs his answer and heads back to his room to start again, this time beginning with more complete breathing exercises, yes even taking Kurt's crass advice to Santana and breathing from his cootch.

Or balls, as it were.

Deep, full intake of breath and a slow, even release controlling the exhale with the steady pressure of his abdomen as if a billows slowly blowing air onto a stack of lit kindling. As he breathes, he thinks. Of why he's working this hard. And why he cares so fucking much.

And all he can see is Kurt. Kurt's smirk as he wrote his new nickname on his thermos and handed it back with the most stubborn, gorgeous, mind-numbing glint in his eye. Kurt's eyes, shining in the dark of their dorm room at band camp, worried over Blaine's anxiety and giggling when he cracked the stupidest of jokes. Kurt's thighs wrapped around his neck when they played chicken and took down Finn and Puck and then again the last night at band camp when modesty had slipped only a little and he'd slipped off his pajama pants before sliding into his own bunk to spend their last night in their own beds.

Kurt, holding onto Rachel as she sobbed from humiliation and anger and then, in glimpses that continued every day with his friendship with Santana. The love they share is enviable and yet, it's welcoming and he feels like he's been allowed in, if only a little bit.

He sees Kurt's hands as they massaged his feet and calves with lotion and grace and shy, averted glances when Blaine would moan like a wanton hooker. His whispered tones in the night at band camp, and again, the night of the sleepover – deep and hushed and raspy and so fucking sexy. His lips as they curl into a smile that makes the blue in his eyes sparkle and shine – and when Blaine has been the cause of that smile, well. All the better.

He's lost track of time, and time is not on his side, so he shakes his head clear and then he's playing again, centering around his mid-to-low range, long steady pitches, dipping scales into a mellow, resonant tone.

He is going to show him. He is going to show himself. He is more than The Screamer – as they called him at Wapak. He is more than Maynard. He is more than Timothy Anderson's gay son. He is most _definitely_ more than Doc.

He is Blaine. He is falling for his difficult, mouthy, opinionated, talented, gorgeous, compassionate, caring trumpet partner. And he's going to prove that he's worth the risk, that _they_ are worth the risk.

And he's going to do it by meeting him in the middle.

~~~**~~~

_Puck [09-12-11 3:12am]: What did you do to my man, Maynard?_

_Blaine [09-12-11 3:17am]: Did Nini give you my number?_

_Seriously, does being the bro-friend of the guy-you're-pining-for's step-brother give you 3am texting rights? His phone buzzes again – obviously it does._

_Puck [09-12-11 3:18am]: Finn. Come on, dude. Why'd you go and make your boyfriend mad?_

_Blaine [09-12-11 3:19am]: I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm single._

_Puck [09-12-11 3:21am]: You can tell me. I'm no homo-hater, man. I know you and the Keeks are getting nasty. But I gotta tell you. I was over there today and he is—spitting. I don't think he stopped playing his stupid horn long enough for a piss break._

_Blaine [09-12-11 3:22am]: That's—charming. And, he sort of pissed me off too, if you must know._

_Puck [09-12-11 3:24am]: Yeah, I heard there was a smackdown. What's the big? We got the stupid Grand Champion? We qualified._

_Blaine [09-12-11 3:25am]: I have no idea. Apparently at this school it's all or nothing?_

_Puck [09-12-11 3:27am]: Well, I’m here to tell you, Kiki's giving it his all. He was hitting notes today that would've deafened my dog. Amazing shit, May—amazing shit._

Blaine stares at his phone and reads the text a few more times. He feels like Kurt just kissed him.

_Blaine [09-12-11 3:31am]: I'm sure it was. He's pretty amazing._

_Puck [09-12-11 3:33am]: There you go. I just don't want to see my boys all heartbroke and upset. I'm rooting for you two._

_Blaine [09-12-11 3:34am]: Thanks, Puck. I'll see you tomorrow? Sort of exhausted._

_Puck [09-12-11 3:36am]: Yeah. You two'll be getting all janky again in no time._

_Blaine [09-12-11 3:37am]: Yes. Janky. Wanky. Hanky and panky._

_Puck [09-12-11 3:38am]: Is that some sort of homo-talk or??_

_Blaine [09-12-11 3:39am]: Good night, Puckerman._


	20. Chapter Nineteen

Kurt knows his dad is ready to throttle him. Finn has given up and virtually moved in with Rachel. Carole, who is the epitome of patience, civility and _let him find his own bliss_ is shooting him daggers over the dinner she pushes to him across the island.

Because he's not eating with the family.

Because there isn't _time_.

Since the day after the competition he's been holed up in his room. It started quietly as he dug into the bowels of the online trumpet players' world where they discuss mundane things like the bore and rim of a mouthpiece, the finish on a horn and how it does or does not affect sound, the intricacies of varying breathing machinations to get the sound quality any given player is shooting for.

He not only came out of it with more information than any one, singular person would ever need, but also with the realization that while he is a kick-ass player, when it all boils down, he doesn't know as much as he'd like to think.

But, he has a lifetime to learn it all and right now, he needs range. He needs a freedom from the score – something he's never struggled with before, but this time – he knows it – this time, he is buried in the music and not in the heart of the song.

He needs a confidence to dive into the soul of the music like he dives into the soul of his fashion sense every single day. And, because it's worth saying again, he needs range. So, after lunch on Sunday, he sits down and studies the literature and finally, when he thinks he might know enough to at least start, he starts.

He starts with the stupid Minear Method, god dammit. Just looking at the printouts make him want to rage. But they're good. And they work – Blaine's proof positive, and while Doc was sloppier than a frat boy at a kegger, his range could also be attributed to Frank Minear.

Kurt hates Frank Minear.

But, he spends a good majority of Sunday afternoon going through the exercises again and again, and while, by the time he stops for dinner he doesn't necessarily have a wider range, he can feel the ease when he's playing the higher end of it.

After dinner, he moves to air flow studies and lip flexibility exercises where he stands and sits and breathes and pushes and he knows he can't do it in a day but the next competition is in less than a week. He keeps going. When his dad finally calls up and _begs_ for an hour of silence, he goes down to the basement to figure out if Finn's old rowing machine still works.

It surprisingly does, and he gets on it and pulls and pulls and pulls, tightening his gut making every muscle work and work and work until he can't pull any more. The monotony of the movements, the wearisome _click-hiss-slide-chunk_ noises quiet his mind for a bit to where he thinks of his breathing. His abdominal muscles. His biceps because holy shit, they are burning.

When he can't pull one more time, he showers and soaks in the bath while pouring over more articles and finds a jackpot. Lip pressure. Upper lip pressure, to be exact. Apparently, too tight of upper lip pressure – what one just naturally uses – effectively puts a stopper on the highest reaching notes of a trumpet player's range. It makes them simply not happen. What normally makes for good sound, good volume, good overall playing, is detrimental when cranking out the notes that live lines above the staff.

But, it's late, so he runs a few more scales, digging down deep and whirling it up as high as he can and for the first time, he ekes out a D#6. It's not much and not where he wants to be, but it's progress.

The next day he coasts through school trying mightily to ignore everyone, even Santana. Blaine, obviously. He toughs out sectionals and does his job as section leader, but makes no effort to truly communicate with anyone. His mind is on one thing and one thing only.

And that one thing is most definitely not Blaine Anderson and his long eye-lashes and broken-hearted face and the warmth he feels whenever he's around. It most definitely is not that he's busting his chops, his gut, his patience and if this goes on for too many days, his grades, to become a better player so Blaine won’t regret coming here. Won't think that Kurt is nothing more than a wimpy little boy trying to make himself bigger and better when the raw talent isn't even there.

He has to get better. He has to figure this out. He has to meet Blaine in the middle and stop playing like a girl and _god dammit, he called me rigid and I am not—okay, so on this fucking solo, I'm rigid. He's fluid. Ebony and ivory? Oil and Water? This should work._

He has to get it right. Has to.

So, Monday evening, after sectionals, he's practicing again, lip exercises and Mr. Minear, the bastard, and rowing and rowing and before he knows it, it's Tuesday and someone is stomping down the hall to his room and didn't Carole _understand_ when he said, "If anyone comes by, I'm not here?"

"What. In the hell. Is wrong with you?"

His back is to the door and he's just finished a C5-C6 scale and it's easier than ever before – notes he's been hitting for years, but he's not tensing at the top – he's not _worried_ about it. He still cannot find the comfort in going higher on the regular, so he needs to keep working and it's Santana. Of course. "Nothing was wrong with me until you barged in here uninvited." He begins again.

She slams his door closed and he ignores her, starting the next scale on a C#, not making it to the top because she has yanked the horn from his mouth. "You won't answer my texts. I don’t like to be ignored."

"And I don't like to be bothered, or have my mouth put in danger by an enraged Puerto Rican, so if you'll kindly _leave_ I'll get back to what I'm doing."

"And what exactly are you doing?"

"Gee, I don't know, Snix. I have my trumpet to my lips, exercise sheets strewn throughout the room, and no life outside of this place since Sunday. What does it _look_ like I'm doing?"

"It looks like you're obsessing over something that isn't important."

"You have no idea what you're talking about. Please go."

"I will not go. What about that judge's comments – oh don't look at me like I don't know that's what this is all about – what about his comments has your boxers in such a fucking twist, Kiki?" Kurt goes to respond, but that's not happening when she's in a rage. "I even asked Jonesy if I could see them for myself yesterday and I can't, for the life of me, figure it out."

Kurt mocks a voice he's never heard. "We don't blend. We don't balance. I'm too wimpy. He's perfectly _athletic_. It's Doc and Kurt all over again, only this time we get to play the game while we're publicly judged."

"You have fucking lost your mind. That judge said nothing of the sort." When Kurt glares at her, she retracts – partially. "Okay, he said you didn't play _together_. That you're stand-out musicians, but you needed to blend and balance more."

"Exactly my point. So, I'm trying to—I'm fixing it. Now go home." He puts his trumpet up again only to have Santana lower it again. "You're not going to ignore me – or Blaine – until you've perfected whatever fault you seem to think you need to perfect. If you want to blend with him, you have to work with him."

"I'd just as soon never _see_ him again, so I'm working on my end of things. If he can't be bothered, then I guess he'll have to carry that burden."

"You're an asshat. Ignore your pride and _your crush_ and fix this."

He blinks at her impatiently before speaking. "I want an E6 – I popped a D# yesterday. You think I can get that half-step by Saturday?"

"You think being able to hit higher notes will make a difference?"

"It'll tighten up the end. Know how he climbs up there as I'm holding my note? If I climb with him – right alongside, but a third down? It'll be—" Kurt huffs and points to the door. "I don't expect you to understand."

"No, after all these years, understanding you is the one thing I do worst of all." She smiles in victory when his shoulders slump. He knows and she knows that if anyone understands him, it's her. From the alcove in the middle school until this moment – it's always been her. "You have one thing to do, Kiki. One. Fix this. By Invitational. Three-and-a-half weeks. Fix the notes if you must. Fix the musicality if you can. Fix whatever it is that's broken. But fix it. Because your mania and his sad puppy dog face are going to send me to an early grave. And I have plans for the rest of this year and they don't include visiting either of you in the loony bin."

She stands and goes to the door and he sighs, unable to turn to look at her. "I miss him. It's been three days and I haven't even looked at him and I don't know what to make of it and I want this to be—I want it to be epic. I hated the idea of this damned duet and I hated him for making it happen, but I can _hear_ what we can be together and I think—I’m probably out of my mind – but I can _feel_ what we can be together and every time I let myself get a little closer—"

"Fix it, Kiki. You know what it feels like when it works with him and you know, deep down inside what you did to make it happen. Find it again. Because when you do?" Kurt turns his head just a bit and she steps back into the room, kissing the top of his head. "You'll be unstoppable."

**~~~**~~~**

Two days later, Kurt's standing at his locker trying to decide what to do before full rehearsal begins. Santana's words still ring in his ears but he hasn't let up on the manic practice sessions at home, kicking it into even higher gear yesterday earning a very irritated visit from his father.

_"You know I was all in support of you joining band, right?"_

_"Be grateful I'm not a percussionist like Finn."_

_"Finn doesn't practice."_

_"Finn's an idiot." There was a beat of silence and Kurt lifted his horn to begin again, but Burt added, "What are you trying to prove?"_

_"I haven't figured that out yet."_

_"Figure it out soon. Or your inheritance is going to my mental health bills."_

Now, he has an hour to kill and his lips are begging him to let it rest so he'll be at full potential for rehearsal. He could do his French homework but that sounds _très ennuyeux_ – beyond boring. He sighs and closes his locker only to find Blaine standing there, a shy smile in place and those ridiculous big brown eyes gleaming in the fluorescent hall lights. Against all common sense, Kurt feels his wall begin to chip and crackle. Again.

Because liking him has been the easiest thing Kurt has had to do all season. "Hi."

"What are you doing this hour?"

"I was just trying to figure that out."

"Can we—hit up a practice room?" Blaine's eyes pop. "To—to practice. Of course."

Blaine bites his bottom lip and Kurt's heart melts even more. _God dammit._ "And maybe to talk?"

"Yes. Talking is good too."

They make their way to the band room, waving at Jonesy in her office as they disappear into one of the small, acoustically charged rooms. Wordlessly, they get out their horns and start some simple scale work – quick warm-ups. They stop and look at each other, the red circle of mouthpiece imprint already forming on each of their top lips. Kurt states the obvious. "You've been practicing a lot this week."

"So have you."

Kurt nods and digs into his folder to pull out some of the lip exercises he's been working on. Blaine scoots his chair closer and the scratch against the tile pulls Kurt's attention back out of his bag. Earnest Blaine has arrived.

He puts his folder down and waits.

"I—I need to say something. And, I really hope – Kurt – that this is the last time I have to say it for you to believe it." Kurt takes in a ragged breath and nods for him to continue – because he knows exactly what Blaine is going to say. "I'm. Not. Doc." Kurt breathes to speak because he knows Blaine is right, but Blaine plows forward before he has a chance. "I'm not wailing on notes to cover you up because I don't think you're good enough to do it on your own. Or because I want all the attention. We—our styles – they complement each other. _We_ complement each other. And I want to prove that to you, but I can't do it alone at home driving my mother crazy with 24-hour practice sessions."

Kurt purses his lips and looks at the floor, wondering when it was last swept. Because wondering that is easier than dealing with the mess that is his mind. His heart. That trust, that warm, connected feeling that has ruled the last few months of his life is seeping back into the holes in his once-solid wall. And while he wants to succumb to it, he resists. If only a little. "The judge didn't seem to think we complemented each other."

"The judge is a dick."

"Jonesy _delighted_ in the fact that we didn't complement each other."

"Kiki, that doesn't even make sense. She delighted in the fact that we were screwing around while she read the comment sheets and she had something to hang us with. Jonesy is a dick."

"Okay, now you're trying too hard."

"Probably. But, you're not trying at all."

Kurt sucks in a breath and closes off again. "You have no idea how hard I've been _trying_ this weekend. How hard I've worked. My dad wanted to put me on the streets."

Blaine laughed and Kurt has to chuckle with him, even though he doesn't want to. "You wouldn't have been alone. Mom was about to boot me out on my ass too."

"We could have busked."

"Might have been fun, actually."

They share a smile and Kurt comes clean. "I don't know how to—he said I played like a girl. Again."

"He _said_ that individually we were fantastic musicians, but together we didn't blend. You heard _you play like a girl_ because he commented on how beautifully you played, but that's not even close to what he said." Blaine stabs at the air with each word. "And.you.know.it." Kurt stares down at Blaine's finger and feels a brick dislodge from his wall with every jab. "That's your easy out and it has to stop. Because it isn't even remotely true."

Kurt meets his eyes and has to look away – they are bright and piercing right through the heart of it all. The heart of him.

"I have an E6. Solid. Ish." He blushes at his own honesty. "I can pop that with your G to tighten up the end – a 3rd instead of the 5th we've been doing. The band has the root of the chord in spades."

"Ish? You want to perform an _ish_ note?"

"It's—it's there. It's just—"

"Then let me come down to the E. Keep your C. It's solid. It's bell-like. It'll work. I don't need to blast that stupid G."

Kurt huffs and gently rubs at a scratch on the tuning slide of his horn. "Don’t you _see_? You shouldn't have to sacrifice what you can do to come down to my level."

"I'm not—stop it. _Complement._ That's what we're going for. I'm going to start my part where you are to blend in more. I've been working on—" Blaine pulls out his etudes and exercises and shows them to Kurt. "I've been trying to get that resonant, vibrant tone you have in your mid-range. So we can sound like two notes coming out of one horn, you know?"

"You have?"

"Yes. I have. I want—don't you want to take what he said as an opportunity to make it better? If he loved it as much as he said he did and then we add his suggestions – can you imagine—"

Kurt knows what he's been doing to match Blaine's quality and now, to see that Blaine's been doing the same thing—he's overwhelmed. "We're going to be fucking amazing, aren't we? The two of us."

Blaine grins and the room is alight with it. "We are. It's going to take some work, but—"

"By Invitational?"

"By Invitational, definitely."

"Okay. Let's—let's start. Well. Let me start. I still need to work on being more fluid with timing and things. I'm still _rigid,_ but—"

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said—"

"You were right. I can't get my nose out of the score. My timing off the metronome. I normally don't struggle with it, but for this I am and it's annoying me."

"We'll get there. One thing at a time. We've got this."

With Blaine's confident smile, Kurt's wall is virtually rubble, bricks of stubbornness and hurt and insecurity piled at his feet. It's not completely gone and there is work to be done, but they're on the road.

Together.

**~~~**~~~**

By the next competition – only two days later – not much changes for their duet other than a general comfort with each other. Kurt thought they'd had it before, but after this particular performance, and the one the night before at the football game, there is a new ease to it. He _had_ been tightening up when Blaine joined him, and that naturally led to, as the judge said, playing at the same time, not together. But, now – he isn't sure if it's the conversation, the change in attitude, or the small musical changes they are making – now there is an added unity to it all.

It still doesn't have the punch Kurt is hoping for. But, for now, it is good. He catches Jonesy cheering at the end of it before he spins off to his position for Santana and Mike's duet _._ It feels amazing. And there is still room to grow.

It is time for awards and the September evening air is getting cooler, so everyone is snuggled up close, rooting Artie on as he rolls his wheelchair to a central point on the away stand's walkway. It's time for _roller coaster_ , the most ridiculous stand activity they do, but the parents love to see it from across the field and – ridiculous or not – it's fun.

Artie spins his chair so his back is turned and shouts over his shoulder. "Everybody buckle in!"

The whole band mimics the lowering of shoulder bars coming down and latching them in for a swirly, upside-down, hill-heavy ride. And then they bounce, as you do when riding toward the first hill of a coaster. Up the hill everyone goes, leaning back onto the row behind them, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing.

"Here we goooooooooooooooooooooooooo!" And it's downhill, hands in the air, squeals and whistles and cheers filling the air as Artie's car leads them left and then right and then up a small climb again, bouncing, bouncing and then down again and _woooaaaah!_ it's a flip upside down and someone leans over the side to "puke" – _has to be a rookie_ – and back around and through and left and right and Artie jerks to a stop and the band follows and breathes heavily and sighs and leans on each other because oh my gawd, _that_ was a roller coaster ride!

The band parents from McKinley cheer from across the field, and after a few more silly chants between bands, "We've got spirit, yes we do! We've got spirit, how 'bout you?" it's time for the announcement they've been waiting for.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have the judges scores. We'll start with Class C."

There is no Grand Champion at this competition, each class winning their own awards, but McKinley takes top honors in the AA division again. First place overall, first place percussion, first place general effect, first place visual effect, first place _music_ , and second place auxiliary – which means the color guard is going to have a hell of a week with Ms. Sylvester on their tails. But, it's good. It's all good.

And Kurt has to chuckle at Blaine, who looks almost forlorn sitting on the bus without the gargantuan trophy on his lap.

Jonesy makes them wait until Monday to hear the comments and it's just as well. There's not much to hear. In fact, none of the judges are particularly wordy, all apologizing for it because they were so enjoying the show that they sort of "forgot" to make comments.

That afternoon after sectionals, Blaine's settling into Kurt's car for a lift home and Kurt catches himself staring. And then Blaine catches him staring, so he makes to start the car quickly, floundering for something of worth to say.

"All that work we did and they barely said anything about our duet."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know. Must mean we did okay."

"I'm sorry I was such—I was a dick. Again."

"I think we established that the judge was a dick. And, that Jonesy was a dick. Not you."

"Maynard, I was a dick." Kurt levels his gaze at Blaine as he starts the car and backs them out of the parking lot.

"Okay, you were sort of a dick."

"Thank you."

"You know, you can stop doing that now, right? No one's—" Blaine rests his hand over Kurt's as it drapes over the gear shift. "No one's out to get you anymore. This is your brass ring to grab."

"Can it—maybe—" Kurt stops himself and pulls up to a light, looking over to Blaine. Earnest, sweet, patient, why-does-he-keep-putting-up-with-me Blaine. And while the thought is something he never imagined he'd consider as few as two months prior, it's crystal clear now. "Can we share it? The brass ring? Our brass ring?"

"I'd like that. I'd like that a lot."

**~~~**~~~**

_Santana [09-25-11 3:01am]: Okay, give._

_Kurt [09-25-11 3:05am]: You the finger?_

_Santana [09-25-11 3:06am]: You'd tell me if you and Frodo were getting it on, right? I mean, you at least owe me that much._

_Kurt [09-25-11 3:07am]: I owe you nothing pertaining to my sex life, but yes. You know I'd at least tell you if—I don't know what I'd tell you. But there's nothing to tell._

_Santana [09-25-11 3:09am]: I'm losing a bet here, Kiki. Not even a kiss? You haven't even KISSED him yet?_

_Kurt [09-25-11 3:10am]: Why the hell would I kiss him? Friends, Snix. He sees us as friends. We are still pretty wobbly as friends._

_Santana [09-25-11 3:12am]: Is that all you want?_

_Kurt [09-25-11 3:15am]: You know the answer to that._

_Santana [09-25-11 3:16am]: Then what's—you guys are practicing together all the time, aren't you? I mean, you fuckers got a Standing O last night – the band didn't even get that outside of our hover moms._

_Kurt [09-25-11 3:17am]: Yes. Practicing. Talking. It's—business?_

_Santana [09-25-11 3:17am]: Bull Fucking Shit. He wants you, Hummel._

_Kurt [09-25-11 3:18am]: He has done nothing to indicate that he does and besides, I'm sure I'm not his type. Not all gay men want all gay men – I shouldn't have to explain this to you._

_Santana [09-25-11 3:19am]: You don't. You're an idiot._

_Kurt [09-25-11 3:20am]: Thank you. Do you think if I practice without a metronome I'll be able to play more freely?_

_Santana [09-25-11 3:21am]: You are a one-trick pony, aren't you?_

_Kurt [09-25-11 3:22am]: If you do the trick right…_

_Santana [09-25-11 3:24am]: He wants you. You two would be amazing. I love you and you need to be with him._

_Kurt [09-25-11 3:25am]: I think I'll try without the metronome. We should be perfect by Invitational Saturday. One more rehearsal._

_Santana [09-25-11 3:26am]: Kiki…_


	21. Chapter Twenty

Blaine has a plan. And it's now officially a plan in action. His heart is racing and his racing heart is making his heart race even more because Kurt has agreed to every bit of it so far. But he's afraid that if his nerves show even an ounce, the point will be lost. The true point.

The secondary point is probably wasted energy anyway, but the _point_.

The point is the music.

The music is why he's doing this, he is convinced. It's why Kurt is getting out his horn on the sidelines of the practice field on the one day a week they don't have practice. It's why he's plugging Jonesy's miniature speaker system into the conduit underneath the tower and why he's plugging his portable iPod speakers into that.

It's why Kurt is now sitting somewhere near the 40-yard line, legs stretched out for miles in front of him, propped back on his hands, watching Blaine buzz around and probably look like a deranged maniac. Kurt has a smirk on his face and a tilt to his head that only serves to invite Blaine to nuzzle in his neck – as if he's presenting the summer-tanned, smooth flesh for him to run his lips—

"You know, most people have the party ready when the guests arrive."

Blaine shoves his iPod onto the connector and stands, grabbing his horn with a grin. "Yes. Well. I'm not most people. And. I'm ready. I think. If I did everything right." Blaine walks to him and reaches his hand down to help him up. "Do—do you need any water or anything before we start?"

"I'm good. It's a nice evening." Kurt stands and wipes off his ass before licking his lips and locking eyes with Blaine. "So. Um. What are we doing here?"

"Well. We are—I thought—I used to do this—" Blaine closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "I thought we could try something I've done in my lessons with Mr. Orr at Dalton – who, you really need to call because he has an open slot after mine once marching season is over and I think he'd serve you better than the TA at OSU Lima you've been using—" _Kurt's eyebrows are raised at me like I'm speaking another language. Slow down, Anderson._ "And it really helped me feel the music when the technicality of it all weighed—"

"Wait. You—you talked to Mr. Orr? About _me_?"

"Yes. We talk frequently and—after our first competition I emailed him for some suggestions on my tone quality and—"

"He has a slot for me? You asked him about me taking lessons with him?"

"I—did I over step—"

"How much?"

"$70 an hour."

"Ouch."

"What do you pay now?"

"About $30 for 45 minutes."

"And how much do you get out of it?"

"About ten bucks."

Blaine waits while Kurt calculates and this isn't why they're here tonight, but marching season is in full swing and winding down at the same time, as it does, and if Kurt's going to study music—

"Right after your slot? We could—we could carpool? Maybe?"

"I'd—I'd like that. There's a nice café there to wait for each other and—I think you'd really—he's amazing."

"Lead for Columbus Jazz Arts Group, right?"

"Yes. But he's on top of the classical stuff too, of course and—"

"I'll talk to Dad. I can put in some more hours at the shop or something." Kurt looks past Blaine to the horizon and sighs. The front coif of his hair has flopped down like it used to every day during summer rehearsals, and he's wearing a lightweight hoodie and jeans so tight Blaine's not sure how Kurt can slip a hand into his pocket, but he does. And stares back at Blaine. "I still don’t know why we're here."

"Yes. Sorry. So, Mr. Orr used to have me do this in his studio, or in the band room there if it was free. Sometimes I'd get bogged down by the mathematics of the music too, and it helps."

"Do what?"

"Oh. Walk. Around. Aimlessly. While you play. It sort of takes the steady beat of it out of your head and helps you sink into the music more. The ebb and flow of it all. So, I thought we could do that with the duet."

Kurt tilts his head again as though Blaine is a puzzle to be solved and Blaine rushes forward with more explanation. "I asked Jonesy if she had the demo we listened to of _Show_ and she did. The solo trumpet was on its own channel, so I pulled that out and it's just the band accompaniment here and she loaned us the speaker and—"

"Why are you doing this?"

Kurt isn't angry, even though he's still looking at him like he's lost his mind. Like he's not sure if he should just get in his car and go back home. But, he steps forward, closer to Blaine and doesn't stop studying him.

"Because—because I believe we can be something amazing."

"We?"

"Playing. I mean. Of course." Blaine swallows because he thinks Kurt's shoulders slumped in disappointment. "I remember how much it helped me at band camp – when you met me on the field to fix my marching and this just seems like another opportunity to shed our ghosts, you know? I can stop being so over-the-top screaming at my dad and you don't have to be so controlled to protect yourself from Doc because—"

"Because you're not Doc."

Kurt's shy smile almost makes Blaine forget to breathe before he speaks again. "Because I'm not Doc and—and my dad's not listening anyway."

"But a lot of other people are. And they really respect you." Kurt takes a step back and begins to walk a little, slowly as though he's getting the tempo of the song under his feet. "I should know. I'm one of them."

"Thank you." _Respect._ Blaine decides he'll take it. Especially from a talent like Kurt. Kurt, who's still walking slowly and looking wistfully to their surroundings, the late afternoon sun slowly dropping in the sky and casting a lovely orange glow around him as he goes. "So, you can start. Maybe just by singing the lyrics? You said you've loved this song for a long time."

"You want me to sing?"

"Only if you're comfortable. I want you to be comfortable, but having the lyrics in your head better might help you know when to push and pull at the phrasing better?"

Kurt stops and hums a bit to himself, turning back toward Blaine and nodding. "Okay. With the track?"

"Yes." Blaine smiles as much encouragement as he can muster and he starts the song. "Just use the whole of the field. I don’t have to hear you. This is for you, not me right now."

Kurt's back is turned when he begins singing and it's clear he's testing the waters of his voice, of Blaine hearing it, of the lyrics and how they can help tell the story once they're removed for the band performance.

But even with all of that, his voice is stunning. He sings with his eyes closed and his face relaxed and peaceful, only a pinch of concentration showing between his brows.

Once he gets to the second verse, his voice already stronger, he stops before it starts. "I'm already doing it, aren't I? It's so much easier with the lyrics."

"You're doing it. You sound beau—"

_Another hero, another mindless crime_  
Behind the curtain, in the pantomime  
  


"I'm going to sing the chorus with you, but don't follow me. Do your own thing."

Kurt nods and keeps going into the chorus as Blaine joins him. Just like in their first competition, they're singing at the same time, but not together, but that's the point right now. Kurt needs to find his own rhythm. Needs to lead with the steady background of the band. Needs to confidently take the reins.

When the next verse starts, Blaine plays his trumpet as he would for the show, quieter, accompanying Kurt's beautiful melody.

_Another heartache, another failed romance  
On and on, does anybody know what we are living for?_

Kurt keeps singing and Blaine continues playing but at the final verse, Blaine has to quit – just to listen. To the hitch in Kurt's voice when he realizes that he has the capacity to disappear into the music but not lose himself in the process.

_I guess I'm learning, I must be warmer now_  
I'll soon be turning, round the corner now  
Outside the dawn is breaking  
But inside in the dark I'm aching to be free—

Kurt stops abruptly, peeling his eyes open and they're standing face to face. "Oh. Hi."

"Hi. You okay?"

"I think—I'm ready to play now."

Blaine resets the music and grabs Kurt's trumpet, handing it over. "Your voice is beautiful."

"Thank you. That felt—that felt really good."

"Music is supposed to feel good, Kiki."

"I think I forget sometimes." He's talking over the music and they chuckle when Blaine bops back to the iPod to reset it yet again. "Sorry. Still walk around?"

"Yes." Blaine hits pause one more time. "You—Kiki. You've waited three years to lead, so you need to _lead_ this. The band is the steady beat behind you. I'm your _accompanist_. You lead me."

"Do you think that's been part of the problem? I've not—" Kurt stops talking and huffs as realization seems to wash over his face. "It is, isn't it? You come in and I'm so used to backing up and letting—Jesus. This is mine to lead."

"It is. It always has been. I've just needed to step aside."

"And I've just needed to take control of it." Kurt worries his bottom lip under his teeth and nods, bringing his horn to his lips blowing air into it, checking the valve action before they begin. "Okay. Hit play."

He does and Kurt begins, walking in one direction, Blaine another. He listens to Kurt's melody, joining him on the chorus and then truly _accompanying_ him with his counter melody. Not playing over the top of it – just adding, joining. Kurt's natural lag and rush of the melodic line is perfect now and when they stop to regroup, Kurt does it differently and Blaine follows his lead as best as he can from forty, sometimes sixty yards away.

They finish the second run-through almost on opposite sides of the field, waving to each other and jogging to the middle, a little out of breath from playing so passionately. "That was awesome. One more time?"

Blaine beams, so thrilled his experiment worked – even better than he could have ever imagined. "Yeah. Can we try one more thing?"

"Sure."

"Let's stay in our spots this time. But, instead of standing side by side like Jonesy has us, let's angle a bit? Lean into each other? You know how Freddie and Brian May – all the rock stars – do? Shoulder to shoulder so we're still sort of front-facing, but—"

"Yeah! Yeah, let's—and then you can tell what I'm going to do, right? You can feel me – when I'm going to breathe and slow and—"

Blaine doesn't answer. He simply goes to the iPod, hits play and grins like an idiot when Kurt starts his solo. It's stunning. He's stunning. So stunning, he almost forgets to meet him at the fifty-yard-line. But when he does, their hard work is evident. They take it to the end and in a quick band interlude, Kurt tosses to Blaine, "Take the G. I'm ready."

So he does and Kurt hits his E with clarity and precision and their sound rings through the field as the recorded band accompaniment moves on into the next song.

Blaine takes Kurt's hand and they bow and then laugh at their ridiculousness while Blaine turns off the music. Kurt sits where he is on the practice field catching his breath, and when Blaine joins him, he dramatically leans onto Kurt, feigning exhaustion. Kurt laughs and pushes him off but his fingers linger and drag down the length of Blaine's arms.

And Blaine feels like the world might slip off of its axis. In fact, as soon as he hears Kurt's voice, whispered and raspy and tentative, he's pretty sure it does. "You said you believed we can be something amazing."

"I did say that."

"Do you really?" Kurt looks up from Blaine's arm and into his eyes and his breathlessness no longer seems to be coming from fatigue. "Believe we can be?"

And Blaine searches Kurt's eyes to figure out if Kurt is speaking musically or—it doesn't matter. The answer remains the same.

"I do."

**~~~**~~~**

Blaine is grateful for adrenaline. And endorphins. And caffeine – sweet, blissful caffeine. Because since that night on the practice field, he hasn't done much sleeping what with all the Kurt-on-the-brain.

He coasted through a history test that he's dreading getting back. He remembers full-band rehearsal being particularly harsh, but as Kurt had warned, Jonesy is always particularly harsh right before a competition and the full-band rehearsal before Buckeye Invitational was a new level of harsh. Upon reflection, half of the clarinet section ended up in tears. Upon further reflection, they probably deserved it because at one point they sounded like didgeridoos.

Broken didgeridoos.

The football game was a non-event as it had poured all day Friday and into the night, so they didn't march and now, he's in the boys' bathroom furthest from the band room _– you don't have to deal with percussion and low brass talking about tits, poop and sports back here, Maynard –_ about to get changed for the biggest competition of the season.

He's nervous. He's anxious. He's ready.

As he strips off his shirt, Kurt walks in and quickly focuses on his shoes as he goes to toe them off. "Hi."

"Hi." Blaine bends to retrieve his band shirt from his own bag and when he stands, he finds Kurt staring at him through his reflection in the mirror, lips slightly parted, his eyes scanning up and down his body, but never at his face.

Feeling a little buzzed from the combination exhaustion/caffeine/adrenaline mix, he drops his band shirt, pauses and then takes off his sweats, humming to himself as if he's completely oblivious he has an audience.

When he reaches for the hanger holding his black band pants, he looks again and Kurt is still staring – but sees he's been caught. He blinks away and stands closer to the mirror, inspecting a non-existent blemish on his chin.

"Kiki?"

"What Maynard?"

"You're ogling." 

"I'm—I'm not. I just, zoned out for a minute. I'm nervous and—" Kurt stops fussing with his face and meets Blaine's smirk in the mirror. He sighs and drops his hand from his chin. "I'm ogling."

Somehow Blaine has the decency to slip into his band pants before responding – besides, it gives him an extra moment to celebrate and to gather his thoughts. As he hooks the waistband and zips, he meets Kurt's eyes in the mirror again – still ogling – and smiles. He steps forward and leans against the mirror making Kurt look at him. Directly. Honestly.

It's time.

"Tell me you've noticed that I do the same thing with you."

Kurt's eyes dip down to Blaine's shoulder and chest and after a swallow, he meets Blaine's eyes. "I—I guess I have. A few times." Kurt shrugs and lifts his shirt over his head, quickly grabbing his band shirt from his bag, fumbling with the hem to slip it on, entirely too quickly for Blaine's tastes. "I just figured I was imagining things."

"What? Why? Why would you do that?" Blaine finally puts his shirt on and he thinks he might see disappointment cross Kurt's face.

"Why wouldn't I? Even gay boys don't like boys like me—it could have only hurt things with us in band and—"

"Wait. Stop. Who says boys don't like boys like—what exactly do you mean – 'like you'? You're not like anyone I've ever met."

"Exactly. Like _me_." Kurt motions to himself up and down and flips his wrists effeminately. "I cook. I sew. I like fashion. My voice, my—everything. And of course, I play like a—"

"Don't. Don't you _dare_ finish that sentence. We excised that one, remember?"

"Maybe musically we did, but—"

"But nothing." Blaine pulls back and considers Kurt for a moment. "Where did you hear something like that anyway? On the internet?"

"No! No, I just—" Kurt slips off his sweats and hastily grabs for his band pants, talking as he puts them on. "AfterElton, okay? I read it there and besides—" He hooks the waistband, zips and pulls his suspenders off their hanger, twisting them in his fingers. "I've been told that my whole life. You know this."

"Okay, but how many _gay_ men have told you no one would want you?"

"Well, AfterElton is—"

"Kiki…"

"None." Kurt suitably blushes and untwists his suspenders, buttoning them into his pants. He stops his motion after hiking them up onto his shoulders and sighs. "None."

"I haven't been ogling because I have nothing better to do with my eyes, you know."

"Blaine…"

" _I_ like boys like you. I like _you_." Blaine takes a step closer and has to start twice before continuing. And Kurt's just staring at him, waiting. "And I'm really tired of pretending that these conversations we keep having are always about the music. Because they're not. For me."

Kurt sucks in a breath. "Blaine?"

"Please tell me I'm not making an ass of myself. That I haven't misinterpreted things."

Kurt stares at him with, his mouth slack, as if holding it closed would take too much effort. And then, a small smile curls at the corners. "You're not misinterpreting things." Kurt swallows and takes a step closer. "I just didn't think—"

"FIFTEEN MINUTES TO CHART ONE!" Beaman bangs on the door and they reach for each other in shock and then because Blaine doesn't want to let go, especially when Kurt smiles and laughs and rolls his eyes as though he's actually relieved that maybe this dance they've been dancing all summer is over, he hangs on even more tightly, pulling Kurt just a little closer.

But then Kurt's face goes serious and he slides his hands down Blaine's arms and grasps his palms in his fingers and they're looking at their hands there together, their chests heaving in anticipation – if not a little left-over fear from Beaman's whacks on the door – and slowly, slowly their eyes travel up to land solidly, peacefully, happily in one another's.

"Maybe you need to stop thinking."

"If this is what not thinking feels like, then I definitely need to stop."

Blaine smiles down to his toes and Kurt's eyes are dancing, so he does what comes naturally. He cups Kurt's jaw in his hand and just as he closes his eyes to press in, Kurt gasps and pushes gently at his chest. "Wait. Wait, wait, wait, wait."

"What? I'm sorry—I—"

"No. You're—it's just that—oh god, our timing is the worst." Kurt takes back Blaine's hand that he'd dropped and tenderly kisses two fingers. "It's just that—I don't want my first kiss to be in the smelly boys' bathroom."

Blaine lowers from his tip-toes – too pumped from the moment to have the sense to be embarrassed that he was on…his tip-toes – and smiles, relieved. "Your first—no. Absolutely. You deserve _much_ better than that."

"I'm sorry. I want to—"

"You will. We will." Blaine's eyes drift down to Kurt's lips. Pink and perfectly puffed and oh, is it going to be splendid. "Before the day's over, I promise you, Kurt Hummel. You will be kissed. Soundly."

"I'm going to hold you to that." Kurt slides his arms around Blaine, pulling him in, kissing his temple and every muscle in Blaine's body turns to liquid. Kurt's voice is but a whisper, his arms holding their promise between them. "But now we have to hurry. I still have to do your hair."

Blaine squeezes Kurt tighter, his slim waist and lean, muscled back like a dream in his arms. When he pulls back, Kurt's cheeks are flushed and he looks happy. So, completely, blissfully happy.

"TEN MINUTES!! GET YOUR ASSES MOVING, PEOPLE!"

**~~~**~~~**

They've just passed Marysville – a little over an hour into their journey to Ohio State and Blaine really hasn't even noticed if anyone else is on the bus or not. Oh, sure. It's loud and the jokes are bawdy, as usual. And the songs are off-key, as usual. And whoever is sitting behind them keeps kicking their seat, as usual. But, he's been scrunched down in his seat with Kurt, holding hands, saying little, taking turns resting on each other's shoulders, stealing glances and giggling like they can't believe how the road is still solid beneath them when surely every tectonic plate on the planet has shifted.

_Not_ as usual.

Finally, _some_ one can't take it anymore.

She appears, squatted down next to Kurt in the aisle seat. She says nothing, simply looking pointedly to Kurt, a moment to Blaine, but mostly to Kurt. They don't need words – it's one of Blaine's favorite things about the friendship between the two of them. Her eyes ask it all and he simply smiles and nods, "Yes."

She lifts her fist to give out a cheer, but pauses to look at Kurt. Blaine doesn't know what it is in Kurt's expression that stops her, but she stills and lowers her hand. She smiles sweetly, lovingly. With a gentle hand on each of their heads, she leans over and kisses Kurt's forehead and then Blaine's. "It's about fucking time, you assholes."


	22. Chapter Twenty One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, while moving things forward, is largely Ohio State University Marching Band masturbation. To get a feel for this band's talents, go to this video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ngjcAvg6TYg   
> To see what is described in this chapter specifically - "Ramp and Script" - watch this one: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WdWolVsKlAI  
> And if you love marching bands, spend time playing on youtube. Look up DCI videos for more corps style, find some good high school bands, and of course, all the varieties of college bands. It'll be a time suck well-spent. Do this AFTER you read this chapter. Of course. Priorities, my friends. Priorities.

Kurt flip-flops between gratitude and utter frustration at the timing of this whole thing. On one hand, they are so busy, he can't stop to think and over-analyze and second guess and generally ruin the thing – _the one thing_ – he's been aching for since—

The truth is, ever since he laid eyes on this boy at their very first rehearsal. Sure, he was hard on him and impatient with him and fighting and tugging and pulling away from the feelings that washed through him every time Blaine looked at him. Every time Blaine stood up to him. Every time Blaine made him smile and laugh and every time Blaine played. Oh, when that boy played. It hurt and it soothed all at once and that tension. That I-don't-know-how-to-feel of it all slopped around in his head and in his heart. He'd flash the pain from Doc but before that feeling could ever completely seat itself, he'd see Blaine. _Really_ see him, and even when he kept fighting it, this boy – this earnest, talented, beautiful boy – would slice through it all and help him see the world in a bright, shining new way.

And now this boy is his. And he is this boy's. And they are so freaking busy unloading and finalizing their uniforms by fixing hats and plumes and sashes and gloves. They're polishing horns again and again and again, thinking that maybe _this_ wipe-through will get that blasted scratch out of the bell that's been there since Sophomore year. They're warming up and oiling valves and greasing slides and bending and squatting and lunging and shoving a disgusting bologna sandwich in their mouths so they don't pass out mid-show. They're working, prepping, standing still so the band moms can polish their shoes and snap the hems of their pants to a crisp point.

So much to do to make things perfect for this huge, monstrous, important competition. It's important because it's here. It's Ohio Stadium. It's an invitational – they were _invited_ to be a part of this event in this legendary stadium in front of this legendary band. In front of thousands of band parents from all over Ohio – and of course their own. And while it won't matter in the grand scheme of their lives – no head hunters are here from colleges, no scholarships are being offered for glorious trumpet duets – it matters to the memories they'll carry with them. To the moment.

And this moment without all the hype of Ohio Stadium is pretty fucking glorious all on its own. "How're the nerves?"

"At bay. You?" Kurt can't help but glance around when Blaine's hand slips around his waist. It's not that he wants to hide, but he doesn't know how his band mates will respond. His directors. Will anyone even care? Will anyone even notice? Oh, he hopes they notice. He wants the world to know.

"I feel better than I ever have."

"Band, Atten-HUT!"

"HUT!"

They snap to attention in-place and Kurt is grateful for the forced focus. Because without it right now, he'd steal this boy in between the lot of parked busses and take that first kiss as his own. Maybe his second and third.

Because everyone knows, trumpet players make the world's best kissers.

With a quick hand squeeze they have to part to line-up to march to warm-up. After warm-up, it's time to line-up for the final time and march to the stadium. With game faces on, it's all forward focus and steady even breathing, quick mental checks of fingerings and last-minute changes in the visual portion of the show, side-eyes to their squads to make sure everyone is not only in perfect alignment, but has their wits about them, their focus sure and true and—

"Holy fucking shit." Kurt takes in such a huge swallow of air, he wonders if he's going to turn himself inside out. He's been to this stadium before for games. His dad usually gets at least one ticket per season from a customer and he's gone a few times – not because he enjoys football, but to see the marching band. The band is as much of the experience of Ohio State football as the team. And for kids like Kurt, for kids like the 150 lined up here inside the stadium now, waiting at the south home stand corner while the previous band finishes their show, it's more than the football team. _Always_ more.

The stadium is an icon in and of itself, originally shaped as a horseshoe, hence the name The Shoe. Now, to get more people in on football Saturdays, they've closed up the opened end of the stadium, fitting in over 100,000 people every Saturday. Today, there are only 2-3000, but it's still the biggest crowd they've ever played for. The bright red Block O shines from the 50-yard-line – an invitation to get out there, do your school proud and take home, if not trophies, amazing, thrilling stories of this day.

The band is lined up single-file against a fence and Blaine has maneuvered himself next to Kurt reaching down inconspicuously for his hand. "It's massive."

"It's so much more overwhelming down here than in the stands."

"You okay?"

"I can't fucking wait to get out there. Oh my god, Blaine…"

"We're going to kill this."

"We're at Ohio Stadium."

"Okay, people, remember. This is a _college_ football field." Jonesy is walking up and down the length of the band, Beaman going in the opposite direction to cover everyone with their final words. "This is not a high school stadium. When you throw it to the box, you throw it further. When you give verbal commands, you have to give them louder. When you think you've given your all, you give another 50%. It's wider than high school fields. What hash marks do we hit here?"

"Taped."

"Do we even _see_ the chalked hash marks?"

"No ma'am!"

"What hash marks?"

"Taped."

"How often?"

"Every time."

"Excellent." Jonesy looks out to the field and the previous band heads towards the ramp to exit the field. "Now go kick some ass."

"HUAH!"

They make their way to the side-line and just as at every football game before, every competition before, Blaine looks to Kurt with a big grin, his horn in place for attention, his eyes shining with anticipation. "Meet you at the Block O?"

Kurt sucks in air as if it's his lifeblood and lets out a small whimper in excitement. "Meet you at the Block O."

"McKinley High School. You may begin your pre-placement and/or warm-up."

**~~~**~~~**

It's bigger.

It's louder.

It's like being inside of a massive space ship when you're used to a one-seated space capsule. Their sound travels as though their music was made for air. Their turns pop, their arcs flow, their steps snap with precision – all 150 musicians finally arrived at the same place at the same time for the same mission.

And Kurt is filled with it all. He can hardly breathe, yet his lungs are always ready, full with exactly what he needs to hit the next phrase. He can't think straight, yet his memory is fine-tuned to every maneuver, every visual, every stop and turn and kick and bow. And as the last bars of _Bicycle_ wind down and he reaches under his horn for the hidden bicycle bell, he steps into place on the front edge of the Block O.

The music stops for two beats and all he can hear is his own breathing. And maybe, if he allows his imagination to tell him it's real, he can hear his dad from the stands, "Come on, Buddy. Knock 'em dead."

So, that's what he does. His sound soars through the stadium and it almost, _almost_ catches him off guard. He can hear his own echo bounce back seconds after he plays and it's – well, dammit, it's gorgeous. He sounds _gorgeous_.

He focuses on Artie's steady beat and remembers the evening with Blaine. _Let it go, Kiki. Be free with the phrasing. Sing the song._ Lead _the song._

The band joins him for the chorus and he feels like he can breathe again, if only a little. A heat forms on his left and he knows Blaine is on his way and then with a gentle bump to his shoulder, he is there. On the Block O. He can't look. Can't smile. Can't acknowledge. He has to keep playing, trusting, believing that everything they've worked for this season, all the fights and the misunderstandings and posturing and thunderstorm cuddling and toe-nail painting has come to this moment.

And it's glorious. Perfect. Kurt leads – melodic, lyric, flowing. Blaine follows – harmonic, dancing, crisp. The band accompanies – choral, rich, supporting.

They press together, shoulder to shoulder as the song soars higher and higher, the band joining in with the second chorus and it builds and builds. Kurt pulls back to prep for the final run to the top and with a lean back, supported by Blaine in music, in body, in mind and in spirit, they nail the ending, the wailing notes soaring over the crowd in the three-tiered stadium as the audience stands and cheers.

Kurt has never felt more perfect, more full, more _right_ in his life.

They cut-off with Artie's cue and take a slow bow as the interlude between songs continues behind them. Blaine hooks his hand through Kurt's and though they've never done that before, though he knows Jonesy will probably birth a small farm animal about it afterwards, Kurt takes Blaine's hand confidently, lifts it and they take another bow. It makes the move to the next chart all the more desperate, but with the adrenaline coursing through them, it's not a problem.

Santana and Mike carry on with their duet and before Kurt can fully catch his breath, they're on the move again with the speed of _Don't Stop Me Now._ And then to the closer with _Somebody to Love_ and it's big and it's brassy and it's bold and the company front is absolute perfection, lifting the crowd off their feet, band evenly spread 20-yard-line to 20-yard-line, horns to the box, sound _beyond_ the box. The final note sounds, the percussion winds it down and—

"HUAH!!!!"

With just a few deep, life-catching breaths, they take it all in, game faces melting into grins as the crowd thanks them with their raucous applause. And four snare taps later, they're turning and heading to the ramp – or The Ramp – to exit the stadium, a soft, steady "hup, hup, hup" keeping their steps in precise rhythm.

As they near the tunnel, Kurt tunes his attention to the announcer, listing their credits as they leave the field.

"…directed by Janis C. Jones, Percussion instructor Kate Beaman, Guard advisor Sue Sylvester. The show you heard was entitled _The Queen's Reign_ and was led by field commander, Artie Abrams. Songs included _Fat Bottomed Girls, Breakthrough, Bicycle, The Show Must Go On_ featuring Kurt Hummel and Blaine Anderson _, Don't Stop Me Now_ featuring Santana Lopez and Mike Chang _, Somebody to Love_ featuring Brittany S. Pierce _._ Continue your applause and appreciation for McKinley Marching Titans from Lima, Ohio!!"

_Kurt Hummel and Blaine Anderson._

It echoes in Kurt's ears again and again as they disappear row by row into the bowels of the stadium and out into the cool fall sunshine to cheer and collapse. To hug and celebrate. And as Finn picks him up and spins him around almost plowing Kurt into the number 5 bass drum, he spots him. Smiling. Beaming. Looking all over for someone.

For him.

"Put me down, you oaf!" Kurt laughs and bats at Finn's shoulder, taking off as soon as his feet hit the ground, gripping his trumpet tightly as he goes. And with a hefty "Oof!" he's in Blaine's arms and his feet are off the ground again and he lands and then Blaine's feet are off the ground and it's everything – everything they worked for right here.

"We did it!"

"We did it. Thank you, Mayn—Blaine." He reaches up and brushes his fingers along Blaine's jaw – breathless that he can do this now, that Blaine's eyes close at his touch and the sweetest smile curls at his lips, crinkles the skin at the sides of his eyes. "Blaine…" He can touch now, and ogle – without shame. "Thank you so much."

"What are you thanking _me_ for? We did it together."

"That means I couldn't have done it without you."

"Yes, you could have. You would have. I'm just glad you didn't have to."

Kurt's eyes dash to Blaine's lips and he licks his own, his heart pounding against the rhythm of the band performing inside the stadium.

"Alright, band! Instruments properly stored! Plumes in the box! Hats in _your own_ hat box."

Kurt glares at nothing in particular and leans in to whisper in Blaine's ear. "I think I have a new nickname for Beaman."

"What's that?"

"Cockblock."

Blaine snerks and lowers his head trying to hide his laughter, but his shaking shoulders and desperate grasp of Kurt's uniform sleeve are dead giveaways.

"Half-dress with State hoodies – except for Hummel, Anderson, Lopez, Chang, Pierce, Abrams. Full uniforms to accept awards tonight."

Kurt chuckles with him, catching his breath when their eyes meet again and Blaine's are darker. Mischievous – in a way he's never seen before. "The timing's not right anyway."

Kurt quirks an eyebrow and cocks his head. "No?"

"No." He winks and turns to listen to Jonesy, who's taken over when Finn practically tackles Beaman for a hug, ending the conversation. Not, however, ending Kurt's racing mind.

"You have three minutes to line up." Jonesy takes a breath and looks over the band – her band. Kurt's not entirely sure _her_ feet are touching the ground either – she's adorably high in the moment. "And band?" She looks them over and if there is a way to literally beam, she's doing it. Glowing, shining pride radiating from her every pore. "You've made me so proud."

**~~~**~~~**

They settle into their seats for the Ohio State band's portion of the show and Kurt has to bite back a grin . He sees Blaine like this every Friday. Every competition, but it never stops being adorable. They're in full uniform, minus hats until the awards ceremony, so Blaine's all tucked and pressed and proper – perfectly lovely. The twist is his hair – his curls are tamed down with probably no fewer than 10 billion bobby pins. And he's so high from the performance, from the atmosphere, there isn't an ounce of self-consciousness about how silly he looks. Which makes it even more appealing.

He loops his arm in Blaine's grabbing his hand. "Have you ever sat this close to the field before?"

"No. Dad's season tickets are B-deck – they get a box."

"We're up to C-deck. Not that it matters here."

"Not to see, but to hear – to watch the way they talk to each other when they march will be—"

Blaine's sentence is cut short when Santana smacks them both on the shoulder and shoves a pointed finger between them, aiming at the ramp. The percussion section silently makes their way into the stadium, high steps, wide sweeping arms of the snare drummers marking time. The crowd begins to come alive and once both rows are in place, the announcer calls, "Ladies and gentlemen.  The Pride of the Buckeyes. The Ohio State University Marching Band!"

And while there had been murmurings before, the crowd of only a few thousand is on their feet as the familiar cadence begins. The band, dressed in all black, save for the white cross sashes and red berets attached at their shoulders, march out in crisp precision, horn snaps popping every turn as they layer into a perfect block of 192 members. With a sharp three-step motion, horns are up and the _Buckeye Battle Cry_ begins as the drum major struts out between the members, marching in place waiting for his cue at the front of the band.

His cue? A back bend all the way down until the tip of his plume touches the astro-turf. He's up, his baton points forward and they're off.

This band is different than all the bands performing today. They march in a military style. High steps, exact 8-to-5 marching. Horns are always directed the same way the marchers are moving – no flanks, no backwards marching. It's the marching from the days of war and it's beautiful in its precision.

As the band gets to the end zone and turns, Blaine squeezes Kurt's hand and leans in. "One day – we're going to be out there."

"Next season. We're gonna make it." As they talk and dream and grin and clap, the band maneuvers itself to the opposite sideline and everyone who is a Buckeye fan knows what's next. If they weren't on their feet already, the entire crowd is now.

"And now, the most memorable tradition in college band history. The Incomparable Script Ohio!"

Kurt takes a deep breath as _Le'Regiment_ begins. Every kid in Ohio who has family that loves OSU football knows this song. Has probably marched around his or her living room with a toy instrument or baton on Saturday afternoons writing a script O-H-I-O as they go, their poor fathers and uncles and mothers and siblings having to peek around their constantly moving form.  And Kurt and Blaine are no exception.

To see this spectacle live. This close. With all of their friends, and now with each other, is something Kurt hopes he never forgets. He's not sure if he has _ever_ felt this completely happy before.

They clap and watch as the huge scripted letter "O" is formed on the field, the lone sousaphone player stuck in between a trumpet player and a baritone player, already poised for his special honor – the "dotting-of-the-i." The band follows the drum major around as he "writes" the word, the curl of the capital-O, the loop of the cursive "h," and then a pause to allow a few members up the staff of the letter "i." Once the small "o" begins, the crowd starts to build in their excitement because they know. They _know_ , that the climactic moment is near.

"There he is – here we go!" The drum major pauses and waits for his sousaphone player to come around the bottom edge of the "o" and nods, escorting him to his special position. The "dot" of the letter "i." With a dramatic swing of his baton, he points to the exact spot to which the sousaphone steps and the crowd cheers. He lifts his hat with bright red plume and bows with the full of his instrument swooping across his body and back up again. He swings his right leg wide and high and spins, bowing to the home stands in the same fashion.

Why it's so exciting is anyone's guess. But, these kids grew up watching. Dreaming. Wanting to be a part of it. If you asked many of them why they joined band back in 5th grade, many would point to these moments. Kurt knows it used to be Puck's dream, so he turns back to find him and throws a hand up for a high five. "Still want it, Puckerman?"

"I want it – not so sure they want me."

"Never know until you try."

"And now, under the direction of Jonathan Waters, please rise and sing as the sound of the campus chimes introduces The Ohio State University Alma Mater, _Carmen Ohio_."

Kurt leans into Blaine who wraps an arm around Kurt – it is chilly fall day after all and multi-layered gloves and wool uniforms only go so far to protect from the breeze. Besides, it all feels so nice. He has a boy to snuggle with in the stands now.

He has a boy to snuggle with in the stands.

The brass band plays as chimes, and goose bumps run up and down Kurt's arms and legs. The melody is simple and quite collegiate. But, whenever he hears the chimes, the next memory belongs to his mom. She told him she sang it to him as a baby and he remembers singing it with her as she'd bathe him, or as they'd bake or do dishes. It's a song, like so many others in this tradition, that permeates so many memories of all of these students.

"You know the words?" Blaine's cheeks are apple-red with the cool air and his eyes dance with excitement in the moment. Kurt leans in more and plants a kiss on top of Blaine's bobby-pinned head – too adorable to resist.

"I've known 'em my whole life."

And so, they sing.

_How firm thy friendship, Oh-hi-o!_

The marching band continues with a half-time show and Kurt can't focus anymore. The warmth of Blaine next to him, their whispered commentary filling the space between them, all starting and stopping with blushing smiles and hand squeezes – as if neither of them can believe the fight against all of their pent-up feelings is finally over. As if they can't get over the thrill of being in this stadium for such an intimate performance – compared to normal football Saturdays. As if being surrounded by their friends, neighbored by their families, the memory of their own performance isn't enough to make the day more perfect than they could ever dream.

But, it's all pooled together. Into this one day. This one moment. And Kurt is filled with the joy of it all – to the point that he fears he can't soak in one more thing.

The half-time show comes to a close and the crowd is on their feet again, Jonesy's hand raised to hold their attention. She directs the leaders to get back down to the sideline to line up for awards and Kurt hopes Blaine is listening because he's – he's saturated.

Blaine stands first and tugs on his hand and Kurt stumbles out of the risers to follow, giggling as he goes, Blaine almost bouncing with excitement. When they finally land on the track and grab their hats, they stop and look around, finding everyone else to line up and march to their positions. Kurt wants to look back and find his dad. Find Carole. See if Blaine's dad is there. But, he can't – it's game time.

Blaine stands in front him and reaches up to adjust Kurt's chin strap, smiling as big as the joy he feels inside of himself. He grasps Blaine's wrist and holds his hand to his heart. "I feel like it's going to pump right out of my body."

"I know." Blaine moves their hands to his chest. "Me, too. Do you—do you even care if we win anything?"

"No." Kurt breathes out a laugh and shakes his head. "No. After all that work. I don't—I don't even care."

"Yeah. I feel like I've already won."

"Titan Squad. Forward…MARCH!" Blaine slips into position and they snap forward, following Artie's gentle, "hup, hup, hup" rhythm and enter the field again. When they snap into position with the other bands, McKinley at the 45-yard-line, they execute their synchronized, choreographed salute to the crowd and Kurt sneaks a peek up, seeing his dad up on his feet, OSU baseball hat spinning in his hand overhead. Blaine – his _boyfriend_ – is to his left, Santana to his right. His band sits anxiously awaiting rows ahead and The Ohio State Marching Band on the field behind him.

He most definitely has already won.

 


	23. Chapter Twenty Two

The awards ceremony is long. Many participating bands won't receive any special accolades, only a trophy of participation and an announcement of their names. That and a barrelful of memories.

By the time they get to the Class AA bands, McKinley's class, everyone's getting fidgety. Those accepting awards must stand at attention with fists flexed at the waist for the entirety of the ceremony. And even when it's their turn – even if they win – they're not to move except for choreographed salutes to the crowd or to the presenters. Standing at attention _this long_ gets old, and Blaine doesn't do standing still very well. No one does, really. So, while whispering at attention is typically a no-no, it happens today.

"Does it look like your dad made it?"

"No. Mom texted before we went on the field."

"You okay?"

"I'm perfect."

"Party at Nini's tonight, gaybies."

"Party at my house? What?"

"Would you guys shut the hell _up_? Jonesy's gonna kill us."

"Not if we bring home the big one, she's not."

"Did you _see_ Dublin Coffman's show? There's no fucking way."

"How did you see it, Disco? We were outside the stadium."

"Wheelchairs bring privilege."

"Do you wanna go? To Nini's—"

An announcement introducing the AA bands interrupts Blaine's question. Artie counts down and they present a choreographed salute and settle in.

"N—no? Maybe? I—what do you want to do?"

"Decide later." Blaine breathes out and takes in the crowd, closing his eyes and slowly opening them again, as if to unveil the moment one more time.

"In Class AA, Percussion, second place goes to…Dublin Coffman!"

And so it begins, Dublin Coffman. McKinley. McKinley, Dublin Coffman. Back and forth, first and second. McKinley takes first place for Music – the award both Kurt and Blaine covet – the one they just missed at their first competition. Today it feels strangely like a personal victory. Kurt gets the honor of picking up that award from Mr. Jonathan Waters himself. Blaine thinks he looks like he might wet himself right there on the field.

They are down to the last two awards and McKinley's squad draws together, out of attention to holds each other's hands. They look up and the entire band follows suit waiting for the ranking for AA band, and then the announcement of Grand Champion. Even if they win AA bands, a Class A band swept their division – nothing is guaranteed.

But even if they don't win both. Don't win anything else, Blaine has Kurt's hand in his and he's just fine.

A win wouldn't be a bad cap to the day though.

"In Class AA, your overall second place trophy goes to…Dublin Coffman!"

They can't react. Not here. Not in this position. The band loses it, however – jumping and screaming and Blaine nudges Kurt to point out Burt hugging the stuffing out of Carole. But the leaders stand motionless at the sideline. Stolid. Hearts pounding. As "at attention" as they can be while holding hands.

The cheers fade and the announcer goes on with what everyone already knows.

"In Class AA, your overall first place trophy goes to…McKinley High School!"

And everyone goes crazy again – simply hearing it. Buckeye Invitational. Ohio Stadium. They won their class. It's plenty. It's enough. It's more than Kurt or Blaine even needed for this day to be perfect.

And they stand perfectly still, waiting for Artie's count, snapping a crisp, choreographed salute to Mr. Waters with such precision, such flair, the crowd goes crazy again.

Once the cheers settle, the announcer continues. "And the Grand Champion of the 2011 Buckeye Invitational, with a total score of 384 out of a possible 400 goes to…"

"Oh my god. Oh my god oh my god oh my god."

"Say it. Say it say it say it."

"From Lima, Ohio – McKinley Marching Titans!!!"

And they can't move. But Blaine hears a whine from Kurt and a whispered _yes_ from Santana and another guttural noise coming from – god, that came from himself, and Artie gives the count. Loudly – with his full attention to the entire band who is having trouble settling down. The leaders at the sidelines release hands and snap the first move of their final choreographed salute and gasp. The band has learned it too, unbeknownst to the attendants up front. All 150 bodies are moving in unison – one-two-three-four-hold-two-three-four-up-and-swing-and-HUAH!

The crowd goes wild again. Dublin tips their hats in respect and the announcer finally, finally bids everyone a good evening.

"Titans…at ease and…dismissed!"

Somewhere in the celebration, Ohio State's band leaves the field. And McKinley's band arrives. Artie is up on Finn and Puck's shoulders lifting the gargantuan trophy in the air. Hugs are shared. Students Blaine has hardly spoken to all season are spinning him around and congratulating him. Girls who have been following him around during rehearsal season finally take their one shot and get their kiss on the cheek. Mike runs to him as if to tackle him, scooping him up and throwing him over his shoulder and charging thirty yards with him, complete with warrior yell and a 360-degree spin before planting him breathless back on the ground.

Rachel deafens him with her wails of joy, Jonesy squeezes the hell out of him and it's simply bodies everywhere jumping and hugging and kissing and laughing and it's perf—

It's _almost_ perfect.

The mass of the band has moved well onto the field and he knows at some point Jonesy will call them to a semi-circle to play their own Alma Mater, but so far he can't even see Jonesy and Beaman in the mess.

Who he _can_ see is carrying Santana around on his back. Joy emanating from every pore. She has her arms wrapped around Kurt's neck and is leaning over kissing wherever her lips land and he's laughing and prancing and he dumps her and picks up Rachel for the same ride, and while she's not as into the prancing as Santana was, they laugh and carry on and finally, Blaine can't stand idle any longer.

This boy. This beautiful, talented, passionate, occasionally pain-in-the-ass boy has a promise that has yet to be fulfilled. And that is entirely unacceptable.

Kurt puts Rachel down and ducks as she swats at him, stepping into a hug from Mercedes, holding her tight. Blaine waits. Rachel pecks his cheek again as she runs to find Finn and then he's there. Looking across a good 10-yard space and smiling. Smiling at Blaine as though he's suddenly the only person he's ever wanted to see.

Blaine's heart skips a beat and he holds out his hands for Kurt to join him. And when he does, Blaine wordlessly pulls them back a few steps while Kurt keeps looking at him, smile turning into curiosity and Blaine momentarily wonders how he can be so expressive with the simple movement of his eyebrows. Well, his eyebrows and the shine in his eyes.

"Blaine?"

Blaine looks down where they're standing. Satisfied. He meets Kurt's gaze and grins, looking down again, hoping Kurt will catch on.

"Meet you at the Block O." Kurt's gaze is still curious.

"Yes. I made a promise today. I'd like to make good on that now, if it's okay with you."

Kurt glances back to the stands, filled now with only McKinley's band family – moms and dads, brothers and sisters, grandparents and neighbors who came out to cheer and support. And they're having a party of their own, not paying much heed to what's happening on the field.

"Well. This _is_ a step up from the boy's bathroom."

"I thought it might be."

Blaine steps forward and Kurt licks his lips and huffs out a laugh when Blaine's hand cups his cheek. And then he's there – Kurt's lips just as he imagined them to be – soft and warm and only the slightest bit wet. The noise from the celebrating band fades away and it's just them in this open space with hundreds of potential spectators and he couldn't care less.

He has Kurt.

_Now_ it's perfect.

He teases the seam of Kurt's lips with his tongue and Kurt moans and pulls him in closer, deepening the kiss, and _oh that's his_ tongue _on mine_ and it's amazing. So amazing, he forgets all the rules about _basketball-width-distances between couples_ and _no PDA while representing McKinley High_ and _boys-don't-kiss-boys_ because who really cares about such things at a time like this?

It all slips away, not even returning when they come up for air, wide-eyed and breathless. Blushing and shy. They press foreheads together and say nothing – not with words anyway – smiling and giggling softly. Blaine feels like the world could implode around him and he'd not notice. Just so he was here. With this boy. With this amazing, blue-eyed wonder of a boy.

Kurt pushes in one more time, chuckling against Blaine's lips when a bobby pin springs free as his fingers scratch at the nape of Blaine's neck. "Oops." But they're not to be distracted. Not when Santana swings by and claps them both on the back.

And not when their directors spy them from the edge of the celebrating band.

_"Oh hell. I need to go—"_

_Beaman grabs the collar of Jonesy's blazer as she tries to walk away to stop the smooching trumpet players. "Oh no you don't."_

_"Let—what are you do—we have_ rules _, Beaman."_

_"We do. And those two boys live by them."_

_Jonesy stops and watches, unable to keep herself from smiling at the scene. She's seen it coming all season. Anyone who's been on the planet for more than a week has seen it coming. They have a perfect backdrop – a stadium of dreams for these kids – where she marched for four years and made many a memory. In fact, where she met her wife – if their marriage would be seen as legal in Ohio. "They do, don't they?"_

_"They do – don't you remember high school?"_

_"I remember I never got to kiss the girl—"_

_"And they can – so leave 'em be. They're not hurting anyone."_

_"No. No, they're not."_

But, after a time, reality must return.

"Band, atten-HUT!"

"HUT!" Kurt and Blaine pull apart and adjust their uniforms and Jonesy can't hold back her laugh, and Blaine knows she saw. Probably everything. They are _screwed!_

"Instruments are in the pit trucks over at the south east corner. Line up in rehearsal circle centered on the fifty. And, let's skip the _Alma Mater_ , huh? How 'bout an encore of _Show Must Go On_?"

The band cheers, the remaining family and friends in the stands cheer and Blaine catches Jonesy's eye with a question.

Her answer is a simple wink and a thumbs up.

Blaine bends over in relief, taking Kurt's hand to walk to the trucks. "I do believe we're Jonesy approved."

"Somehow that makes it even sweeter."

**~~~**~~~**

Blaine wipes his hands on his shorts and takes a deep breath before answering the door. It's just Kurt. He's expecting him. They'd made these plans on the bus ride home from Invitational, still giggly and snuggly and high from all of the day's activities. His mom decided to stay in Columbus for the night. Brittany really is having an overnight party next door.

And Kurt really is standing outside hopefully as nervous as Blaine because—well, because. Everything shifted the moment Kurt said, "You're not misinterpreting things," and he doesn't want to screw it up. But if he doesn't open the door—

He opens the door. And a _Hi_ whispers out of him when all he sees is the top of Kurt's head – hair slightly damp from a post-competition shower, eyebrows lifted in expectation and the rest of his face covered in a lush bouquet of lavender flowers – daisy-like with bright yellow centers.

Kurt lowers the bouquet just a hair and breathes a _hello_ in return _,_ stepping inside when Blaine finally has the sense to step back to let him. "Mums. From my mom's garden. I thought—for your mom's pitcher? Since lemonade season is over."

Blaine can't speak. The mums are plentiful, bound perfectly like a huge bridal bouquet with a pale yellow organza ribbon – the exact pale yellow of his mother's Vaseline glass pitcher he replaced at the estate sale. And the boy behind them – well. He's shining and shy and a little bouncy and looking at him expectantly.

"From—from your mom's—"

The flowers are momentarily forgotten on the door-side table when the smack of Kurt's overnight bag echoes as it hits the Venetian tile of the foyer floor. Kurt grasps Blaine's face in his hands, his lips soft and warm and demanding, the faintest of whimpers dancing in the quiet house around them. The kiss breaks with a wet smack but Kurt has barely moved back, brushing his nose against Blaine's cheek, his breath whispering across his ear. "I'm—I'm sorry. I just—I wanted to do that without an audience."

More softly, more gently this time, Blaine turns his face to seal their lips together again, his tongue teasing at Kurt's bottom lip and now, now without the swimming high of the competition, of the location, of everything that surrounded them at the stadium, he can just _feel_. Feel Kurt's tongue tracing over his, Kurt's lips, smooth and full and pressing and caressing his own. Hear the soft, delicate moans and hitches in breath between them when Kurt holds him by the waist, or tilts his head just so, or slides a hand up his back to gently scratch at the nape of his neck, even twisting a curl around his finger like he must touch everything. It's all so perfect and delicious and the entire night is in front of them and Kurt is—

Here.

Kurt is here. In his arms. Against his chest. Taking a break from the kisses and nuzzling his nose into his curls and Blaine never wants to move from this spot. "The—the flowers. We should—"

"Oh. Yes. We probably should." Blaine steps back and Kurt is grinning, a soft laugh ghosting out of him and all Blaine can do is mirror him back and take in the joy sparking between them.

Blaine closes his eyes as Kurt traces the line of his jaw with his finger, his touch gentle and soothing and he never imagined wanting such a thing until it's there making him feel things he's never felt before. "Blaine. What have we been waiting for?"

"I have no idea." With another soft kiss, Blaine picks up the flowers. "Maybe we had to wait for the perfect moment." He pulls the flowers in for a sniff, the scent catching him by surprise.

And Kurt laughs at what is most likely a really ridiculous face. "They don't particularly smell good."

"No." Blaine blinks and takes Kurt's hand to lead him into the kitchen, chuckling at himself. "But they're pretty enough to make up for that."

"You'll want to take the ribbon off – maybe put it around the pitcher or something."

They get to the kitchen and Blaine pulls the pitcher off of its top shelf home, swiping a towel inside to remove any dust. "Will you ever stop surprising me?"

"Oh, I hope not."

Blaine unties the ribbon and the flower stems fall into a flattened pile. "Why don’t you put them in – I'm sure they'll look much better if you do it."

"I should have—let's leave the ribbon on for another minute." Kurt takes the yellow trail of fabric and drapes it around Blaine's neck, pulling him in for yet another kiss. "That's the most important step."

"I like this hobby already."

"Mmm…" As Blaine fills the pitcher with water, Kurt gathers the flowers back up and wraps them with the ribbon. "Okay, set it down." He guides the flowers into the vase, unties the ribbon and they fall into a perfect arrangement. With quick motion, he loops the ribbon around the neck of the pitcher and lifts it for inspection. "What do you think?"

"I think I need to kiss you again." So he does. "Piano? That way Mom will see them when she comes home tomorrow."

"Piano." Kurt trails him into the living room, lifting a doily from under a photo on the sideboard in the dining room. He cushions the vase with the doily on the closed top of the piano, fluffing out the ribbon a little.

"These are perfect. Mom says she can never get her mums to come back year to year. How do you—I mean, your mom—"

"She taught me a lot before she—sometimes I wonder if she somehow knew?" Kurt pauses and goes insular for a moment, running his fingers along the delicate ribbon on the vase. "She was diligent on pinching the flowers back and weeding and mulching and—I just kept up with it. Carole helps now, of course."

Kurt moves his touch to a petal of the flowers and Blaine waits, letting him enjoy some memories alone for a moment. And when Kurt looks back to him, eye shining and maybe a little sad, Blaine can't help but say the only sentence that has been on his tongue since he opened the door. "You're amazing."

"You make me feel like I am." His smile is slight and still a little shy. "So. You tell me you play this contraption, but I've seen no proof. Now that it's properly decorated—play something for me."

Blaine goes in for another kiss, soft and tender, a gentle sweep of their tongues promising to revisit the kiss later. It's a diversionary tactic, to be sure. He doesn't know what to play that won't seem cheesy. Or disingenuous. Or so completely unpracticed Kurt will leave him forever, wondering why he ever spend time with a hack such as he.

"Will you sing?"

"No promises."

**~~~**~~~**

Instead, Kurt plays the finger drums on the music ledge of the piano, giggling and bouncing along to Blaine's rendition of _Crazy Little Thing Called Love._

It all started with the familiar vamp leading into _Don't Stop Me Now_ with Blaine wagging his eyebrows at the opening lyric. _Tonight, I'm gonna have myself a good time_ , and Kurt simply shook his head and let him continue for a few more lines before interrupting with the softest, sweetest smile Blaine had ever seen.

"You're not sick of that song by now?"

"I'm pretty sick of that song." And he fiddled around a bit and moved on to _Ooh, you make me live. You're my best friend_ , but when he got to the line, _I really love you_ , he had blushed so profusely, he fumbled his piano playing and Kurt giggled and sat down on the bench next to him which flustered him even more. He decided to lighten things up and that's where they are now.

_This thing called love. I just can't handle it._ And Kurt is biting his lip as he hums along and watches Blaine's fingers dance over the keys. When they get to the end, Kurt has figured out what key he's playing in and chimes in the final chord with him, high on the keyboard.

The sound rings through the room and they're left there, side-to-side, and a little breathless in anticipation? It surely isn't exertion. Kurt walks his fingers down the keys chromatically, showing at least a couple years of piano experience in his technique – 1-3-1-3-2, 1-3-1-3-1-3-2 – until his fingers reach Blaine's hand where he keeps "playing," taking Blaine's hand in his and bringing it up to his lips for a soft kiss.

"I love watching you play."

"Watching? Not listening?"

"I like your hands."

Kurt's eyes are dark as they scan up from their intertwined fingers to Blaine's gaze. Blaine has to swallow to find his voice – which is an interesting dilemma because his mouth has dried out completely. "Do—do you want me to keep playing?"

"No."

Want. That's all Blaine can see in Kurt's eyes. Deep, before-I-second-guess-myself want, pupils blown and lips parted and breath uneven as everything in the room seems to twist and swirl around them in slow motion. And Blaine feels that want too, but he's paralyzed. And Kurt is waiting on him to get to it and his lips are so soft and full and begging to be kissed again and yes. He's paralyzed.

Before Blaine even has the end of the sentence calculated in his head, "Do you want to get some water and maybe—" Oh god, he's a nervous wreck and is going to die right on the spot. "Maybe go to my room?"

"Yes. Please."  

"Okay."


	24. Chapter Twenty Three

Everything about the start of Buckeye Invitational Day was typical for a competition Saturday. When Kurt's alarm went off that morning – this morning – he greeted it with a smack to turn it off, a groan for being so rudely interrupted, and a curse at the aches and pains he already felt taunting him – ones that would surely be there at days' end. Without much more fanfare, he stumbled into the bathroom for a shower.

Just like every morning before a competition, he and Finn ate – at Carole's insistence – a huge breakfast. Beyond the fact that he didn't have time for his standard warm-ups at home, or even his quick reps on the rowing machine, it was a standard competition Saturday.

Call was at 7:30 am, earlier than usual. Still, like every competition Saturday, his mind was on one thing. Competing: nailing his charts; immersing himself into his solo; leading his section with class and authority, skill and precision; calmly taking the solo into a duet that would not only be accurate and pleasing to the judges, but also a showstopper for the crowd – wowing them to their feet if at all possible; enjoying the company of his friends and yes – enjoying the company of Blaine.

Things with Blaine had shifted after their rehearsal a few nights prior – alone on that practice field excising demons and saying things like _I think we'd be amazing together_. But, they were still undefined. Unsure. Un—just un- _something_.

As if they were waiting for one more piece of the puzzle to lock into place.

But _this_ day, Buckeye Invitational day, a typical competition Saturday, was not the day to be concerned about such things.

And then, without any sort of warning or flashing lights or sounding sirens, his desire for Blaine – desire that has been building all summer long – percolated into this bumbling mess of ogling and want and yes-please-can-we-try and before he could even process it all, Blaine was kissing him on the _Block O_ at Ohio Stadium.

It was _not_ a standard competition Saturday.

And now, he's about to spend the night with Blaine. But, he's standing in the doorway to Blaine's room glued to the floor, his heart beating down into the pit of his stomach _and_ up into his throat. At the same time.

He has spent nights with Blaine before. Somewhat forced sleepovers at band camp, of course, and the sleepover with Santana where he practically made love to the boy's feet. Then there was that one night they practiced so late, he sort of spent the night because they fell asleep. Kurt woke up with a start at 3 am when Rachel texted him about Finn and his bowel habits. He fled home so quickly he was stunned the night didn't end with a speeding ticket.

It did, however, end up with a grounding for missing curfew.

The point – this overnight-with-Blaine-deal – isn't new.

But here he is frozen anyway, and Blaine is standing at the foot of his bed looking at Kurt with his huge doe eyes and lips that taste like cinnamon-vanilla – he always wondered what flavor Chapstick Blaine used after performances – and now he knows without having to ask. He knows by _taste._

Kurt cannot _move_ from this spot.

"You can come in—"

"I know. I just—" He has to laugh at himself. At the day. At everything. Because what else is he supposed to do? "This day has been overwhelming."

Blaine's smile is so calming that when he approaches and slides Kurt's overnight bag off of his shoulder, takes hold of his hands and gently pulls him into the room, Kurt goes willingly. Happy to not have to think about it any longer.

The room is the same as it is every time he's here. It's tidy and well-organized. Dark walls with lovely wood – cherry? – Kurt's not sure of those details, but definitely high quality furnishings. His robot collection scatters the shelves amongst books about musical theater and jazz, of science fiction and fantasy. It's a room that is lived in often, that Blaine has made his own in a house that doesn't feel much like home at all.

But, Kurt isn't the same as the previous times he's been here. And he assumes Blaine isn't. And he knows _they_ aren't. The newness of everything is spinning around them, a zephyr gently disrupting the ease they once had here. "We don’t have to make it more overwhelming. I just—I didn't want the day to end without you next to me."

When Blaine's voice breaks over his last words, and his eyes shine with sincerity and the earnestness that has driven Kurt to a point of madness since the day they met, Kurt's nerves loosen just enough that he slides his hands up Blaine's arms. He cups his face in his hands and kisses him, firmly, confidently. He kisses him with all of his might and while he's _acting_ confident about it, he's still not quite sure he's doing this kissing thing right, except that it feels amazing. Every time.

And all of this kissing is making him feel things all over his body. His lips, of course, tingling and soft and longing for more more more of Blaine's. And when Blaine teases at his bottom lip – after only a day of this, that seems to be the pattern so far – Kurt can't help the noises he makes, can't help that he clutches onto Blaine even more tightly, can't help the rush that goes straight to his gut. Which of course, elicits more noises, more clutching and more kissing.

It's a cycle he thinks he might get accustomed to.

It's a cycle he thinks he's already accustomed to.

His dad was right.

He groans at his stupid brain – at bringing his dad into this. He charges forward again, moaning at Blaine's hand on his jaw holding him like he means it and when they break apart and rest their foreheads together and try to remember how to breathe, Kurt can't help but roll his eyes and chuckle at the stupid _stupid_ route his brain has taken.

"Something funny?"

"I just—my dad. And—no. I'm not bringing my dad in here any further than he already is."

"Oh-ho no, sir." Blaine takes a step back and sits on the edge of the bed, tugging at Kurt to sit down with him. "What does your dad have to do with the best kisses to have ever been kissed?"

Kurt blushes at that – Blaine's obviously being generous knowing he's new to all of this, because surely his kisses aren't the _best_. Not yet, anyway. "Last year. We had _the talk_ —"

"Oh, god. That had to have been awful."

"It was. And it wasn't because he didn't try to go over mechanics or anything – he had pamphlets for me for that, but—" Kurt stopped himself and laughed at the look on Blaine's face – a cross between amusement and pained misery. Which pretty much summed up the experience of _the talk_. "He mostly talked to me about the heart of it all. The connection." When Kurt stops to take a breath he looks at Blaine and relaxes – a little. Connection. "He said that once you—" But not for long. He's talking about sex with a gay boy alone in his bedroom and the gay boy is his boyfriend who he just kissed for the first time today and this is officially the most amazing day ever. And also the most frightening because now he has to finish that sentence. "Once you…start. Having sex. You don't want to stop."

"We don’t have to do—tonight. We don't have to do _anything._ I meant what I said that I just wanted—"

"I know." Kurt looks at Blaine again – into his eyes and the thing is, Blaine's eyes are betraying his words. Blaine wants. And so does Kurt. "But, I keep thinking that if I feel this way just about kissing you – that I could do it for the rest of my life and never get tired of it and really, it's been too long already since you've kissed me—"

Blaine fixes that dilemma quickly and completely.

"Mmm…about kissing you—god, you are really good at that."

"Thank you. So are you."

"I have no idea what I'm doing."

"You most assuredly do."

Kurt takes a breath to shoot back something smart, but stops himself and finishes his thoughts before Blaine almost kisses them out of his head. "If I feel this way about just _kissing_ you, I'm almost afraid of how I'm going to—" Kurt gives up talking and falls backwards onto the bed. "I need today to spread out over a month."

Blaine's quiet beside him for long moments and Kurt's afraid he's said something wrong or too openly or something. Long moments are really long when you don't know what the other person is thinking. And when you just wish they'd kiss you again already now, please. He feels the bed shift and Blaine is up and away from it clicking on his iPod, fiddling until he finds a playlist he's happy with.

"Jazz okay?"

Kurt simply nods. Jazz is good for spontaneous self-combustion, he's sure of it.

The bed dips again and Kurt follows Blaine's motions up to the head of the bed and has to smile when he opens his arms up to Kurt. "Come up here with me."

So he goes and without a second thought, curls up into Blaine's left arm, snuggling right into the crook of it where his cheek can rest on his chest. Where he can feel Blaine's heart thumping quickly and steadily. Where he can smell Blaine's shower gel and fabric softener. Where he realizes he feels better than he's ever felt near anyone in his entire life. "This is—this is _nice._ "

"Yeah? Comfy?"

With an extra nuzzle in close and a daring curl of his leg over Blaine's – yes. He could most definitely get used to this. "Comfy. Not so overwhelmed."

"Good. Maybe we'd better talk before we go back to the kissing portion of our evening?"

Kurt groans. He's not proud of it. He sounds like his dad just asked him to take out the garbage and someone – _FINN –_ forgot to do it the night Carole made chicken breasts and there is rotting meat in it and Blaine's lips are on his head and he's cricketing their legs together and this is nothing like when his Dad asks him to take out the disgusting garbage.

So, he swallows and hikes up a little higher in Blaine's arms and rests his hands on Blaine's stomach and it's nice and soft, yet clearly muscular and he's in a boy's arms. A beautiful boy's arms. A boy who asked him to be in his arms. And this wasn't supposed to happen in high school because high school sucks and is in Bum Fuck Bassackwards Ohio and Blaine's lips really are amazing. He's just looked up to them again and he's staring at them, he knows it. "I'm not—I'm not even doing so well at the talking either."

"Maybe we need another kiss – for fortification."

"Yes, please."

Blaine sinks his fingers into Kurt's hair and the noise he makes when Blaine's lips meet his most definitely is nothing like anything he's uttered before, especially not when his dad asks him to do something he'd rather not do. Because this, _this_ he'd rather do every minute of every day for the rest of—

Blaine shifts and Kurt feels—Blaine is hard. And Kurt clearly is hard, but he was hoping to keep that to himself a bit longer and oh my god. Blaine is hard from kissing _him_.

But, Blaine pulls back before Kurt can get too attached to the feel of it against his thigh and he's breathing heavily and stroking his cheek with his finger, looking at him like he's the most beautiful boy to ever exist. And he thinks maybe in this setting, with this boy – maybe, next to him anyway – he just might be. "Blaine…"

"I'm—I'm sorry. We're supposed to be talking."

Kurt sinks back to where he was before, where his cheek is on Blaine's chest and he doesn't have to look him in the eye to do this talking, but he's still here, wrapped up in him. In the feel and weight and softness and lines and _boy_ of him. "It's—it's more than okay. But—we should talk." Kurt focuses on the tight weave of knit in Blaine's shirt – desperately trying not to stare at the slight bulge that remains at his crotch. "Have you ever been with—before?"

"No. Just a little kissing. I had a boyfriend of sorts last year, but—"

"There were guys to pick from at Wapak?"

Blaine chuckles and it rumbles under Kurt's cheek and he blushes at how silly that must have sounded. Of course there were other gay boys in Wapak, just like there are at McKinley. They just don’t all wear Pride flags as overcoats.

"No, actually. He's from Dalton. Took trumpet lessons right before me. He'd wait for me and Mom finally let me stay late. She'd shop. We'd get coffee. She'd pick me up and we'd sneak a goodbye kiss behind a column at the drop-off turn-around."

"How very teen movie of you."

"Quite. He kept inviting me to his dorm room, but I just wasn't comfortable."

"And yet, you're here with me now…"

"Kurt. I—I feel things for you I never felt for him. I have for a long while now."

Kurt's felt it too. He's fought it from disbelief, but he's felt it and now there's no more fight left in him. "We have sort of been doing this awhile, haven't we?"

"It's like we've been acting so much of it out without naming it."

"Or moving on to Act II." Kurt hikes up and presses his lips to Blaine's, soft and brief, snuggling back down into his arms before anything more happens. "I'm sort of fond of Act II."

"Me too. And, this doesn't have to be—I mean, you're right. Today has been overwhelming and if you want to just—like bandcamp. Or at your house with Snix. Or whatever, I'm—I'm okay with that. I just want you to be comfortable."

"I'm comfortable. And—" Kurt pushes himself up to sit and tentatively hovers his hand over Blaine's thigh, looking up to him for permission. When Blaine covers Kurt's hand with his own and lowers it to rest where it had been hovering, Kurt expels a gust of held breath and watches as Blaine's fingers gently caress his knuckles. "I don't want tonight to be like bandcamp. Or our other sleepovers."

When he looks up from their hands, Blaine is there gazing at him with eyes darker than he's seen so far today. He swallows and squeezes Kurt's hand, nodding in agreement. "No. I really don't either, but it's okay if it—" Blaine bites his lip and Kurt wants to bite his lip, but waits. Talking. They're supposed to be talking. "What's your—what's your line? Your stopping—how far—"

"I don't know. I always thought I'd know when the time came. And now that we're here, I don’t think I really _have_ a line anymore."

" _Kurt_ —"

"Unless you do. Then—" Kurt pulls his hand away from Blaine's grasp, wanting to find somewhere else to touch without it being so freaking _warm_ to his fingers and he settles with just holding Blaine's hand in his own lap. "Then I want to honor that and not do—I don’t want to make you uncomfortable either, but my dad said—" Kurt groans and buries his face in his hands. His freaking _dad_ needs to leave the scene already.

"Hey." Blaine peels Kurt's hands away from his face, and flashes that calming smile, all teeth and soft lips and warm eyes. "What did your dad say?"

"He said that sex for guys is often just about the—the physical." Kurt looks up into the room to search for his water. He's parched and really would like to not be talking anymore and get back to the kissing.

Blaine follows his line of vision and crawls over to get both of their glasses from his desk. "I wish my dad had talked to me about anything like this. Mom acts like sex is just a figment of everyone's imagination."

"Well, Dad's honest – to a fault." Kurt gulps down half of his water and charges ahead. "So, he thought that when it's two guys, they're both more into the physical. So, he wanted me to be sure that when it was time – for anything – that I'd make sure it was about _connecting_ with someone. Not just. You know. Getting off." Kurt chugged back the rest of his water and blushed when he resurfaced to find Blaine looking at him with great amusement. "Cotton mouth."

"Mmm. So. What does that mean for us? Tonight? Another night?"

"It means, that I don’t think it is just physical. Like we said, we've been dancing around this awhile now. The connection—am I over-analyzing? It's—it's been there, right?"

"It has for me."

"So. Maybe if we just—go with it? I don't think I'm ready for _everything_ tonight, but—"

"Oh god, Kurt." Blaine breathes out his words and re-catches the breath like it might be his last. His fingers brush over Kurt's cheek and all Kurt can do is close his eyes and soak in the feeling of it.

"Can we go back to the kissing?"

Blaine kisses Kurt's right cheek. "Always." Then his left. "Anytime." And with one smooth move, he curls his arm around Kurt, pulling him down onto his back, settling in next to him to dot kisses over his lips and down his jawline. "Whenever and wherever you'd like."

**~~~**~~~**

Within the next hour, Kurt is convinced they are the two best kissers to have ever kissed. It's a reasonable summation seeing as they kissed for the first time only six hours ago. And already, he knows that Blaine is especially responsive when Kurt gently sucks on his tongue. And he knows that he is responsive when Blaine is responsive because the sounds Blaine makes go straight to his dick.

Which has been in a constant state of just-shy-of-hardy-hard-hard since they had their little talk. Kurt knows what it will take to remove the _just-shy-of_ bit and that's friction. They've had moments of it, but then one or both of them gets a moment of clarity – panic? – and they pull back, stop kissing, hold each other and catch their breath. Which isn't so bad either. Being in Blaine's arms is damned nice.

Someone starts kissing the other's neck – usually Blaine kissing Kurt's although Kurt has discovered the amazing sensation of slight scruff against tender skin and he's thinking kissing Blaine's neck might be seconded only to kissing his lips – and they're back at it again and finally Kurt can't take the _just-shy-of_ anymore, so he curls a leg around Blaine's, hoping, dear god please, hoping to nudge him closer. Over. Please, come here.

And Blaine does, if but a little, hiking up and slinging a leg over Kurt's thighs, hovering, still kissing and nipping and kissing down his jaw, sucking an earlobe into his mouth and _Oh!_ That is particularly nice and before Kurt has time to wonder what horrible sounds he's making he's rolling his hips up and meeting—

Air. Not what he wants. "Blaine…please."

Blaine kisses his way back from the curve of Kurt's neck, his weight resting on his elbows and knees and he looks down at Kurt. All Kurt can do is whisper an airy _oh god_ because Blaine looks absolutely wrecked. His lips are swollen and his curls are all over the place, fingers having tugged and pulled and pillows having smushed and skewed the normal round bounce of them. His eyes are shining, dark and puffy as if he needs sleep. Or is it that his eyelids are drooping, so far into the moment that opening them completely would be too much work? His cheeks are flushed and his breath is ghosting across Kurt's face like a summer breeze.

Kurt could die right now and not feel like he's missed a thing because he's seen this boy, this way, and it's all for him.

"Too—too much? Should we take a bre—"

"No!" Blaine's eyes do pop open at Kurt's immediate response and then a smile spreads across his face, making Kurt's toes curl. "No. I want—could you?" Kurt spreads his legs a little and Blaine instinctively responds by bringing his legs inside of Kurt's. "Yes and then—lay down? On me?"

"Okay. Let me—can I take off my—" Blaine lifts his weight from one arm and tugs at his collar his eyebrows lifted in question.

"Yes. Oh god yes. Sit back. Yes." And Blaine sits back on his haunches and Kurt's up and helping Blaine peel out of his shirt, then letting Blaine lift Kurt's shirt up over his head and they're there, shirtless, and it shouldn't be a big deal because – _bandcamp_ – but nothing at all is anything like bandcamp. It's not nerves of seeing, of accidentally bumping into each other in the night, of walking in on the other's morning routine, of being so sweaty after practice you barely make it to the privacy of your dorm before stripping off your drenched shirt to sponge-bathe and dig out another one. It's none of that.

It's Kurt. And Blaine. With one thing in mind and Blaine's chest is so nicely defined – wide at the shoulders and so perfectly trim at the waist, the faint lines of his abdominals begging to be outlined by Kurt's tongue. And he's not self-conscious about himself, as he feared he'd be. He knows that underneath the pale, white – in places gossamer – skin are some well-defined muscles, his own faint outlines of abdominals, broad shoulders and trim waist. And he sees it in Blaine's face, how pleased he is. And how quickly he charges forward again, lowering Kurt back onto the bed, the moan shared between them as their bare chests and bellies touch and shift together and then without thinking again, when Blaine tugs ever so gently on Kurt's bottom lip – how he loves that – Kurt's hips are rolling again and oh oh oh!

This is what he wants. This is what he's been longing for. Not the occasional nudge of Blaine's erection on his thigh, or the accidental bump of Blaine's arm over the bulge of his own pants when they shift, but the honest to goodness weight and line and press of boy against boy.

This boy. This boy who is rolling his hips down to meet Kurt's moves and the moans in his ear and his lips kissing lower and lower to his neck and across his clavicle and they're still moving together when Blaine starts kissing back up again. Kurt throws his head back, exposing his neck and squeezing his hands in Blaine's mussed curls when Blaine takes the invitation to lavish his neck with kisses and licks and the softest suckles that simply make him shiver in delight.

"God. Kurt. You feel—"

"Amazing. I know. I can't—"

Blaine shifts a little and they both groan and smile into breathy laughs at the ridiculousness of how amazing it all feels until Kurt finds words again. "I can't—" His hips roll again and they're getting more insistent, both of them and the kissing has slowed down because there's so much going on below and maybe they should think ahead of what's next and—

"Is this okay? Do I need to—"

"No. It's. God, Blaine." Rolling and moving and fabric rubbing and pressure and weight and lips and muscular arms and bare skin and Kurt's systems are firing everywhere, rolling and rolling and—"Can we—pants?  Can we—"

Blaine is up before Kurt can finish his sentence, hovering, still dotting Kurt's neck and shoulders and even lower with kisses, his fingers of one hand fumbling with the snap of his slacks and Kurt watches and sees the tent of them and how— _oh god_. He reaches up and helps, batting Blaine's hand away, unsnapping and unzipping and Blaine makes a deep, guttural noise that fills the room as Kurt's fingers skim over the waistband of them and they stop.

And the only sound now – no more moans, no more lips smacking, no more shifting duvet – is their breathing as they stare at each other, Kurt's thumbs in Blaine's waistband. "Just—just the pants, or—"

Blaine swallows and bends, tracing one of Kurt's nipples with his tongue and then sucking it into his mouth, smiling around it as Kurt arches into it. "What do you want? What should we—"

"B—both? Everything? I just want to feel—oh god, Blaine."

Blaine sucks his other nipple into his mouth and Kurt scoops the waistband of Blaine's underwear under his thumbs and waits. "Yes. Both. Both is—god, yes. Just—" Blaine sits up and helps Kurt push his pants down and Kurt lifts up just a bit to watch. Yes, to watch and to see and to wonder and oh dear god, he simply _is_ the most beautiful boy to ever exist.

"Oh my god, come here. Come here. Be on me, please." He grabs at Blaine and pulls him down, ignoring Blaine's grunt when the wind is slightly knocked out of him and when he pulls back a bit for some reason and why is he pulling back now. There's skin and beautiful boy and he's naked on top of him and oh.

"Kurt. Wait. Honey." Blaine chuckles again and moans when Kurt catches his earlobe and drags his teeth along it. "Oh god, that's good, but—" Somehow Blaine's weaseled his way out of Kurt's arms and is sitting up on his haunches again and he's naked and oh my god, he's so hard and the head of his penis is this gorgeous dusty pink and it's bobbing there and the hair at the base is dark like the hair on his head and there's a trail of it from his belly button and really, Kurt shouldn't be so enamored – he looks just like himself.

Only it's not himself. It's Blaine and he's naked and ready for Kurt. For _Kurt._ And Blaine's unsnapping Kurt's pants now and he gets it. He locks eyes with Blaine, scared – honestly – and ready and so fucking _ready_ and—"I'm sorry. I sort of got excited."

"I'm glad. I'm glad you want me."

"Oh god, you have no idea." Kurt arches into the pull of his zipper and suddenly understands that guttural moan Blaine had exuded earlier. It's the friction and the promise all wrapped into one slow, tortuous motion.

"Oh, I think I do." Without the pause in question they shared when Kurt shed Blaine of his pants, Blaine dips down to lave kisses over Kurt's stomach, hooking his fingers into the front of his pants and underwear, pulling them down as he goes and Kurt instinctively hikes his ass up to get them off and Blaine's mouth is wet and warm and soothing over his stomach and oh my, he's close to everything, but then, all the fabric is around his thighs and it's really up to him to get it all off all the way.

He tries to be smooth and cool about it like in the movies he's found online, but he's not and Blaine giggles and Kurt rolls his eyes and finally caves to the silliness of it and pulls Blaine back down on top of him once they're finally shed and now – _now_ – they are fully naked and Kurt didn't even think for a moment that Blaine was seeing him because now he's _feeling_ him and it all feels unbelievable.

They moan in unison, long and drawn out, hissing at the contact, their dicks slotting together, dragging a bit with skin on skin, but within a few stuttered, miscalculated movements and adjustments, they're there and it's – _everything_. The drag and the pull and the push and Blaine's perfect, perfect weight on him and his mouth on his mouth and his tongue in his mouth and then down his jaw again and his breath in his ear and Kurt is so lost in it all. He drapes a leg around Blaine's backside and pulls him in closer and Blaine's up out of his neck, all kissing ceased and it's just movement and rolling and friction and yes, there, yes, and Kurt's so close he can feel the twisting low in his gut and it's glorious. Blaine's eyes are closed, then opened, staring down at him and pushing harder and stuttered and harder and then there's a strangled _Kurt_ and Kurt feels the wet striping his stomach just as Blaine's eyes clench shut and he's throwing his own head back, overcome with how sexy and hot and amazing and outlandish it all really, really is.

Blaine slows and steadies and lowers his head into the crook of Kurt's neck, catching his breath and Kurt's so fucking _close_ but Blaine's spent and hardly moving and oh god, he thinks he might die, trying to roll to find Blaine's thigh or something that's the perfect pressure of it all. Blaine kisses his way up Kurt's neck and smiles, lazy and face shimmering with sweat, the ringlets of curls damp and framing his face. "Put your hands on me, Blaine. Please. _Please._ "

"Yes. Yes, oh god, yes. I'm so—I'm sorry." And Blaine slides off of Kurt and Kurt whines as the cool air hits his naked body, but he's arching up to Blaine's touch that's not there yet and why isn't he touching yet?

Kurt peels an eye open and Blaine's there just looking at him. His hand slides up Kurt's thigh and his eyes trace up and down Kurt's abdomen and he's not touching and oh my god touch me and why aren't you— "Is—is everything okay?"

"You—I've never seen—not in real life and—oh, _Kurt._ " Blaine finally, tentatively wraps his hand around the shaft of Kurt and holds it there for a moment, watching Kurt react to the touch. Kurt's body arches into Blaine's touch, the droplets of Blaine's come dripping down the sides of his belly, his fingers gripping at the sheets beneath him. His face is slack with pleasure and only when Kurt brings his hand up to show what he likes, does Blaine move. He slides his fist up Kurt's length, up and over the head, groaning when his fingers slick with the moisture already there. "You are stunning. Beautiful. Oh my god. Look at you."

And Kurt could wallow in Blaine's praise, but Blaine's _touch_ , the perfect pace, the perfect – almost perfect— "Maybe. Um. A little tighter?"

"Yes, yes…" Blaine complies and bends down to lick at a nipple, to steal just a simple chaste kiss from his lips, mumbling his question over them. "Like this?"

"Just like—" He can't speak. He's been waiting so long. Pushed so close and with little warning, he clamps his hand on Blaine's thigh, squeezing when the coils of his orgasm spin tight and spring free, more intense and pleasurable than any he's ever enjoyed alone and he feels like he comes for hours and it surely takes him hours to come down and Blaine's hand never leaves him as he does, slowly milking him and the slick slide of it eases him back to some semblance of reality, not even caring that he's getting oversensitive because Blaine's touch is just that perfect.

He's blissed out. He's high. He's exhausted. He's so completely—he opens his eyes and Blaine's still sitting there, his come-covered hand resting peacefully on Kurt's hip. He's still staring as though he's looking at some supernatural god and all Kurt can do is drag a finger up Blaine's arm to his face, smiling in absolute peace when their eyes meet again. "Oh my _god._ "

"That was—that was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life."

Kurt can't help the chuckle that breathes out of him. He feels the same. And sadly, he's starting to feel gross. But not. Because it's them. And the first of them. The most secret of them and Kurt doesn't feel naked at all. "Can we shower?"

"Yes. Then can we do that again?"

"Yes."


	25. Chapter Twenty Four

"Is it finally tomorrow?" Kurt hikes up on one elbow and peeks over Blaine's head to see his bedside clock. It reads _12:25_ and Kurt flops back down nuzzling in closer, tucking one knee in between Blaine's. "It's tomorrow."

"You wanted yesterday to end?"

"No. Yes. Not because it wasn't perfect because it was, but now I feel like maybe I can breathe again."

"I don't want it to be today yet though."

"I'll have to go home."

Blaine nods and reaches forward to place a soft kiss to Kurt's lips. "We still have twelve hours."

"We do. I'm so fucking tired, but I don't want to waste it sleeping."

"Maybe just a nap?"

"Okay." But Kurt doesn't close his eyes and neither does Blaine. "I can't stop staring at you. Like if I close my eyes and open them again, I'll wake up from a dream."

"A very good dream."

"A perfect dream. But I don't want this to be a dream. It has to be real."

"It's real. It's perfect."

"You're perfect."

"Oh no. Don't put that on me!" Blaine kisses the tip of Kurt's nose and scoots in even closer, his fingers dragging lazy lines up and down Kurt's sides and back.

"Just tonight. You can be perfect just tonight."

"We can be perfect. It's a deal."

**~~~~**~~~**

_Santana [10-09-11 3:12am]: You guys need to take a fuck break and get over here to the party._

"She is such a class act. You know how to pick 'em."

"She's especially classy when she's drunk. I'm surprised there aren't any typos. Do you wanna go over? Make it so I'm not _really_ lying to my dad?"

"Kurt…"

"I'm sorr—look. It's fine. This one time. I just can't make a habit of it because – he's—"

"I get it. Just this one time. And yeah, we can stop over. There can't be many people left, can there?"

"Awake? Probably not. Most everyone stays so they don't have to drive home though."

_Santana [10-09-11 3:16am]: Serouislu? Have you even stopped to hydrate? Shuld I call a squad? Do gays work like dogs, knotting so u can jst stay there and come and come and come?_

"There are the typos."

_Kurt [10-09-11 3:18am]: Do I have to put pants on or are most people already naked?_

"KURT! Oh my god."

"Oh, _now_ you're going to get pristine? Mr. Let's Stay Naked So We Don't Waste Time For The Next Round?"

"I didn't hear you arguing my logic."

_Santana [10-09-11 3:20am]: My gaybies DID get laid! Oh holu of holies! Gt ur come soaked asses ovr here nwo so I can kiss all over u._

"Welcome to drunk Snix. I'd apologize, but I'm not the one who made her that way."

Before Kurt can come up with a smart answer, Blaine's up and tossing Kurt's underwear to him. "Yeah, this I need to see in person. Thirty minutes tops. And then we need to get back to not sleeping."

"I love not sleeping with you." Blaine's boxer briefs are only dangling on one leg, but he falls onto the bed, onto Kurt anyway, laughing all the way as their lips crash together in a messy, poorly choreographed kiss.

An absolute continuation of their perfect night.

**~~~**~~~**

Blaine stirs awake and while morning is never his favorite time of day, this day, he's all smiles. He's not alone in his bed and the lovely being making the "not alone" bit real is rolled onto his stomach, one long muscular leg curled out from under the bed sheet while the other is stretched out still within it. There is just a hint of butt-cheek peeking from the rucked fabric, smooth skin leading up to the sweet dip of waistline and firm, well-toned back. In essence, the boy lying next to him is more than he could have ever dreamt of. In body, in humor, in passion in talent. In everything.

Blaine takes a moment to pop and stretch his back and settles down next to Kurt, curling his body to his form as he dots gentle kisses along his back and shoulders, not wanting to wake him completely but hoping he stirs just a little. If he's learned nothing else in the past twenty-four hours it's that everything is better with Kurt. Awake, responding, kissing, moving, moaning coming—oh god, when he—

Blaine groans at his own thoughts, pushing his hips against Kurt's backside wondering if he'll ever experience life again without being at least somewhat turned on. And then Kurt mewls – like a sleepy cat he freaking mewls – and presses back against Blaine and no. He will never experience life again without being at least somewhat turned on.

And that is really, not such a bad deal. As long as Kurt is there.

Blaine slides his hand up Kurt's side and stills, letting Kurt settle back into sleep if that's what he wants and just about dies waiting to see what he's going to do, his lips itching to kiss, his body thrumming with want to touch and press and hold.

"Why'd you stop?"

Blaine smiles against Kurt's shoulder blade – unable to resist at least resting his lips on his satin skin – and purses his lips to complete the kiss. "I wanted to let you sleep."

"When you offer this as the alternative?" Kurt curls up on himself, stretching his back and unfurls, morning groans syncing with every move. When he stretches out full, he turns to face Blaine, a sleepy smile and a flop of bang draped over his forehead. "Good morning."

"Good morning, indeed."

Their kiss meets in the middle and stutters as they kick and flail at the sheets tangled around their legs preventing them from twining together. With a huff of irritation, Blaine finally finds purchase to pull away, chuckling at their lack of coordination as he manually throws the fabric back to reveal their nudity. And stares. Again.

"Blaine. C'mere. It's cold without you."

Everything is slow and stretchy as Blaine lowers back down, muscles pulling and relaxing as they welcome their bodies to the morning, easing out of sleep and into each other again. Soft kisses and whispered sighs, fingers sinking into sleep mussed hair, the edges of it fuzzed with the fog of a new day, the emotional hangover of the day before.

They're quickly heating, kisses more insistent, more demanding and Blaine's torn between the want, the need and this niggling desire he's had since the first rehearsal where they met.

Where Kurt was short and snippy and just the perfect snot to him – the new kid who had an attitude of compliant cockiness – but was so lovely, so controlled in his fury that Blaine was left with an odd amused attraction. An attraction to Kurt's drive, to his lips, to the thick tuft of hair that flopped when he'd turn a sharp flank, to his lips, to the strength of his legs – legs that he's now felt wrapped around him, pulling him in closer and closer – _to his lips_. To everything that convinced him that moving to Lima Ohio was probably the smartest thing his father ever suggested.

He goes with his niggling desire, pulling back, giggling boyishly as Kurt chases his mouth as he retreats.

"No. Come back. Is it my morning breath?"

Kurt flops back and Blaine kisses his cheek tenderly. "No. I didn't even notice."

He covers Kurt's cheek and temple, nose and corner of his mouth with dry, soft kisses, dotted between words. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Yes. Anything."

"Don’t kiss back."

"What? How am I supposed to not—"

"Shhh. Just let me—" Blaine straddles Kurt's hips and grins at the curiosity painted all over his face.  "Just for a minute." He slowly runs the tip of his tongue over Kurt's bottom lip, knowing his idea is working when Kurt's breath stutters beneath him. "Your lips—" Two soft kisses to Kurt's loose lips and he delicately sucks his bottom lip in, pulling away as Kurt gasps. "I've wanted to do this since—" Brushing his lips across Kurt's, no kisses, just touch and breath and soft skin, "Since that first night."

He completes his worship with a tongue-led kiss to the bow of Kurt's lips, where after rehearsals and performances, practice and warm-ups, it lures him, red and puffed from his mouthpiece. From his passion of the music. It's the slip of skin that makes Kurt who he is. Passion and talent, sensitive and occasionally callous. 

He lifts but a little and Kurt's eyes flutter open, his lips so soft, parted just so. He is angelic here, naked on his bed, sleep-mussed and pliant. Without a word, Kurt pulls him down for a proper kiss, mutual and slick, speaking what language can't say. And Blaine is swept up in it, in the softness of Kurt's skin on his, the motion of his muscles as they shift and adjust, the sounds Kurt makes – pure male lust and airy sweetness all at once.

Blaine has more plans for this morning, so as lovely as this is, he pulls away and works his way down Kurt's neck, stopping to wrap his lips around the bump of his Adam's apple, giggling against Kurt's skin when it bobs as he swallows down a moan. Down and down he goes, soft tongue-led kisses over each pec, each nipple, pausing when Kurt arches up to his touch, sinking his fingers into Blaine's curls as if inviting him to stay there awhile.

And it's only awhile before Blaine's kissing down over Kurt's abdomen, tracing the faint lines of his muscles there, strengthened from his manic fits on the rowing machine, soft skin and hard muscle, a trail of hair leading right to where he wants to be. Where he wants his mouth to be.

He slows and kisses, nips at Kurt's hips, tracing along each hip bone down and then back up, chuckling as Kurt's whines intensify as he goes away from the center, away from the target he keeps teasing at.

"Blaine, please."

Dotting kisses over each thigh, he looks up and waits, wanting to catch Kurt's eye, to slow and refocus because frankly, he's now a nervous wreck and will be damned if they don't take this next step together in mind and in body. Kurt finally lifts his head, his eyes wide and desperate, his breath ragged and again, those lips – puffed and parted and Blaine somehow finds his voice. "Can I put my mouth on you?"

Kurt flops his head back and sinks his fingers back into Blaine's hair thrusting up just enough to give the answer – just in case his moan-filled _yespleaseohmygodyes_ isn't quite intelligible.

Blaine takes hold of him, still amazed at what he's doing – that he's touching another boy like this – and looks up again, pressing into Kurt's fingers on his scalp. "I have no idea what I'm doing."

Kurt groans again and works with the rhythm Blaine is lazily making on his cock and mumbles something resembling, "I have faith in you."

Blaine's thrumming with it all – the anxiety of not really knowing what the hell he's doing, the pressure he's put on himself to please Kurt, his own arousal that is sort of distracting him as his legs awkwardly hang off the foot of the bed and the fact that Kurt is here, hard and full in his hand, writhing gently beneath him making pleading noises that could, all on their own, get him off without any effort whatsoever.

With one more glance up to Kurt, who seems to be completely lost in the slide of Blaine's fist over his cock, he leans in, and swirls his tongue around the darkening head of Kurt. Kurt gasps and exhales on a whine of his name – he must be doing this right.

His heart is racing and his body is on fire, but he surges forward, taking Kurt in his mouth, sinking down just a bit getting used to the weight of his cock on his tongue, pulling back up taking more the next time, setting up a slow rhythm, not wanting to miss a second of the experience. Not miss the way Kurt lifts his hips and then stops himself. And after a few more motions on Blaine's part, especially when he sucks as he pulls up, how Kurt thrusts up again anyway as if completely unable to control himself.

It's that – the lack of control – the lack of concern about the words coming out of his mouth, the volume or indecency of the sounds he's making, the lift and roll of his hips, the way he pulls at Blaine's hair when Blaine does something he likes – controlled, put-together, measured Kurt is lost to Blaine and his mouth and the pleasure he's bringing him.

It has to be – even though everything they've done the last twelve hours has been erotic and intoxicating – the most erotic thing Blaine has ever experienced. That he can strip Kurt naked in every possible way. This intimacy. This moment. It is theirs.

So, he is intentional. Intentional in the way he drags his tongue up the length of Kurt's cock and intentional on spending time at the dimpled underside where the darkened head meets the shaft.

Intentional to take him in as far as he can because that's when Kurt gets especially vocal and hair-pully and _ohmyfuckingoddontstop_. Intentional to listen to him shift and breathe and hiss and groan.

Intentional to look up now and then and catch Kurt's eyes watching him, watching his mouth cover him and then flop backwards because it's all too much, too overwhelming all over again.

Intentional when everything shifts and Kurt's breathing is quickening and his words are all cutting off and he can feel Kurt's dick hardening even more – which he never thought it to be possible – and he knows that Kurt's close and Blaine's uncoordinated and his own spit is everywhere and it's sloppy and Kurt doesn't care, he's going to come anyway and _oh._

Kurt's going to come and why didn't anyone tell him that sex meant a whole heap of split-second decisions? What does Kurt want him to do? What does he want to do? So far, the taste of Kurt has been—fine. Slightly bitter. Far from unpleasant. The scent, musky male and sex. He doesn't know and Kurt's whining and the muscles of his thighs are tightening beneath Blaine's arms and the truth is, Blaine's getting close as well just with the friction of the sheets and he pulls off because – yes. He wants to watch.

That's the split-second decision this time. They'll talk later, but now he wants to watch. And just as he's about to pat himself on the back for being a genius decision maker, he twists his wrist on a firm downward stroke and Kurt barks out a strangled _Fuck!,_ thrusting into Blaine's hand, white strings of come falling on his fist, on Kurt's hips and belly, his body tight with the force of it. Stunning. Pure, exquisite lust.

Blaine strokes a few more times, staring at the pearl drops trailing down his hand and dares to taste, a gentle sucking kiss on the head Kurt's cock. Kurt groans, pulling Blaine up his body, dragging him through the mess, gathering him into a sloppy kiss, lifting his thigh just so Blaine can straddle and buck against it until he comes, uneven stops and starts as Kurt sucks his tongue into his mouth, tasting and searching for something just beyond his reach.

They lay there, spent and slick, Kurt lazily spinning Blaine's curls around and through his fingers. He chuckles and Blaine looks up because laughing at a man after he just gives his first blow job is probably not the best bedside manner. "What?"

"I don't want to even imagine—" Kurt stops to swallow and clear his throat, his voice raspy and wasted. "Imagine what that's going to be like when you do know what you're doing."

"Mmm." Blaine slips off of Kurt's body and snuggles in beside, lazily dragging a finger through the smears of come on Kurt's belly. "Maybe I do know. I could have been fibbing."

"I'm glad you're not." Kurt kisses the top of Blaine's head and he has to smile – moments ago they were as intimate as he's ever been with another human being, but the simple act of lips pressing into his pile of messy hair feels just as special. "I'm so glad to be figuring this all out with you."

"We do seem to have a decent record of effective practice time."

**~~~**~~~**

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Always."

Lunch has taken longer than usual to prepare and eat because, it so happens, stopping every few minutes to kiss and snuggle and press against countertops slows down the basic process of making and enjoying sandwiches with chips. And Blaine is obsessively looking at the clock because they have already lied to Kurt's dad to get this wonderful night together. The last thing they need is a blown curfew – even if that curfew is 1pm on a Sunday afternoon.

But, since their stolen nap that morning, the one after the amazing wake-up and the thirty minute shower because someone insisted on repaying the favor even though Blaine was sure he'd ever get hard that quickly again but oh my god he actually did and what an amazing repayment it was, he's wanted to know.

"Snix. Last night at the party. Well, and every other time before then too but last night it all seemed to hit me differently. She's so—I know she's your best friend and she's my friend now too, so I’m not trying to be judgmental or—"

"Blaine." Kurt leans in and kisses him softly, brushing crumbs off the corner of his mouth. "I know what she's like – you're not going to offend me."

Blaine nods and presses forward. "She's so crass about it all. About sex. And I know – you said she had a rough go of it at first, so on some level I get it, but—" He sighs and stops and when Kurt feeds him his final potato chip, he stands to clean their plates – to buy himself a few extra minutes to put it all together. "Your dad's right, you know?"

"He usually is."

"I mean, last night was—well, it was clumsy and bumbling and so fucking hot and amazing and I swear, Kurt. I feel more—" He puts the dishes in the sink, giving up on the idea of rinsing and loading into the dishwasher while his words swirl in twisted in knots throughout his body.

He turns and his breath is taken away at the boy sitting at the island in his kitchen. His hair is styled in place now and he's back in his casual-yet-ever-so-fashionable clothes – today it's mustard-yellow jeans, a simple henley and vest – Blaine loves Kurt's vests and how they show off his arms and shoulders and trim waist. He knows from their post-shower routine that he smells of Blaine's cologne and shower gel and that alone is enough to make Blaine want to fall at his feet and start everything all over again.

But, he doesn't. There are knotted words waiting on him to untangle. "I feel more for you now – _thousands_ of times more than I did—than I did 24 hours ago when we were standing in that stupid boys' bathroom. Than I did when I caught your eye before we ended our duet – or kissing you in the middle of Ohio Stadium, and Kurt – I thought my heart was going to explode every time. Like I could never feel more than I did in then and here I am with you and I can't even—"

"I didn't know you were such a romantic." The soft smile on Kurt's face untangles the remainder of Blaine's words so much that they slip from his mind completely.

"I—I hope that's a good thing because this is as honest as I've ever been."

"It's a great thing." Kurt grabs their glasses and meets Blaine at the sink, pressing a soft kiss at his temple. "It's all I've ever wanted."

"I want to be everything you've ever wanted." Kurt pulls him in for a kiss, Blaine pliant in his arms as Kurt licks into his mouth pulling out more sighs of want – just when he thought he'd used up more than his daily allotment. He rests there, in Kurt's arms, settling his head on Kurt's shoulder as they sway to silent music, soaking up their last few moments together. "And Santana?"

"I think she has all she wants now. And that's good enough for her."

"I want everyone to feel this."

"She will. In her own time. And if she knew you were worrying about it while standing here with me, she'd kick your ass."

"Then let's not fill her in. I sort of want to save my ass for other things." Which breaks the spell and Kurt cackles, pulling out of their perfect hug to smack playfully at Blaine's arm.

"You are such a jerk."

"But you love me."

"I—I think maybe I do."


	26. Chapter Twenty Five

It's the final chorus of _Show Must Go On_ , and Kurt has to bring his horn down to take it all in. To soak in the music around him. To listen to Blaine take the counter melody up and over the top of the band. To turn and watch him, his own vision clouded by tears because this is _it_.

As these notes ring out, as this rehearsal ends, they will never again be here with these people, playing this music, listening to Beaman and Jonesy give direction from the tower, watching Artie direct them through the songs, see the color guards beautiful flags flapping in front and around them as they maneuver here, on this parking lot at McKinley High School.

It's the final rehearsal before state contest. At Artie's cut-off, they'll pile onto busses, head to Dayton and begin a whirlwind of activity. Warm-up, line-up, perform, get their ratings and pile back into busses to eat a disgusting meal at a buffet restaurant while taking as many photos as possible to memorialize the last minutes of marching band season. And for the seniors, of marching band. Period.

"Kiki! You okay?"

Kurt turns to Blaine's voice, raised to be heard over the band, flipping his valves, his stance broad and focused to gear up for their final run, their flashy end to the duet that almost ended them before they started. The duet that taught them to be better men. Better musicians. Better.

"Yeah. This is it, Maynard."

Blaine's trumpet is up to his lips before his smile flashes full, but Kurt can see it in his eyes. Talking behind his mouthpiece, he nudges Kurt's arm to join him. "Then let's kill it."

And, being the final rehearsal of all final rehearsals, they do – taking the end of their duet to its peak instead of holding back as they usually do for a pre-performance rehearsal. This one counts in different ways. It's for this band family. The parents packing busses and gearing up to chaperone who cleaned their injuries and held their heads while they puked – who listened to broken-hearted sob-fests and broken up pissing contests. The directors and composers and choreographers who made the music the best it can be – who walked, ran, cursed and loved on them during some of the most memorable moments of their lives thus far. And of course, their friends in the band – even their not-so-friends – who laughed, cried, bled, played, hugged, hated and loved, and made marching band the one thing from high school that will stay with all of them for the rest of their lives.

As they round out the closing number, reality hits anew and Kurt has to harken back to early rehearsal days, getting that damned newbie back on track with his squad. "Maynard! Half step left – your whole squad is off."

But instead of snarking back or giving Kurt an attitude, Blaine simply takes his half step and checks his squad, a gentle direction to his 2nd trumpet lead to line it up. They're a well-oiled machine now, egos pushed aside, one goal in mind— to end this season on top.

The Grand Champion trophies already decorate the case in the music hall, the oversized 4 ft. tall trophy from Buckeye Invitational at the center of the display. Now, it's a simple matter of a Superior Rating. One final score. One final show.

As soon as rehearsal is over, the seniors line up on the 50-yard-line and await the underclassman to come by for hugs – some awkward, some like coming home – one more opportunity to say goodbye to marching season. They load the busses, Blaine sliding down into the bench seat with Kurt, bopping Santana on the head in the seat in front of him as he goes.

"Oh god. This is one thing I won't miss after today. Come here." Kurt giggles as Blaine rolls his eyes and leans his head in – he knows. A curl being difficult, popping out of its pins and gel.

"You're not going to miss having your fingers in my hair?"

Kurt finishes and narrows his eyes, a little naughty meeting a little naughty. "You know that won't stop."

Blaine grins, scrunching up his nose when Kurt pats the offending pin and curl down. "I do know – and I'm so grateful." Kurt hums and curls Blaine's arm in his as he settles back into their seat.

They fall into silence, almost loud in comparison to the ruckus of the other students around them. Blaine asks again. "You okay?"

"Yeah. I am. It's so hard to believe we'll never do this again."

"We will. Just not here."

Kurt grins at Blaine's Ohio State dreams – dreams he was a little afraid to allow himself to dream earlier this season, but now has embraced as reality. "I'm going to miss this though."

"Yeah. Nothing quite like it, is there?"

"No. And you." Kurt kisses Blaine's temple. "You've made it amazing."

**~~~**~~~**

State competition is a bit of an anticlimax to the intensity and focus of something like the Buckeye Invitational – or any large competition. The only competitor is yourself and each band is shooting for only one rating – Superior. No rankings, no trophies, no in-stand parties while awaiting scores, no five-glove-per-hand snuggles. Five bands take the field, five bands get their scores, five bands leave. Another five enter. It's a machine.

And participating in it can put everyone on auto-pilot. Horns – from the least beautiful beginner horns most freshmen still carry, to the most expensive professional horns Blaine carries – shined, oiled and greased. Shoes, polished. Hair, pinned. Hats, secured. Gloves, bleached white. Sashes, sashed. Plumes, fluffed. For performance, it's clear-cut precision, horns-to-the-box sound, three months of work all to be presented to seven highly respected judges who will tell you if it is superior, excellent or – god forbid – only good.

For this year's competition, it's unseasonably hot and humid for the end of October in Dayton. The wool uniforms are already feeling sticky and itchy and the hats are suffocating. But, it's time to march in, backs turned to the previous band as Jonesy paces to give her final instructions. Kurt has been through this pre-competition routine 19 times before – five times every year – and he knows her spiel by heart, but he nods at the right times, lost to his own thoughts.

_Watch the opening diagonal. Check Chelsea on chart 15. Connect with Maynard before bridge in_ Bicycle _, Santana on way to 50 for solo. Kick ass with Maynard. Maynard – Blaine. God, how did we get here? How did I manage any of this shit called high school without him? I could really use a kiss right about now. Of course that would lead to more things knowing the way we've been going and Jonesy has a_ thing _about PDA so—Jesus, Hummel. Head in the game. Okay, solo, duet, kill the E like you own it. Squeeze the shit out of Blaine's hand at the bow. Send Snix and Mike good vibes, remind Brent to hit the right fucking yard line at Chart 62. Company front, blow the stands off of their foundation, make Dad – and Mom – proud. Go home. Sleep for a month—_

A flash of lightning in the distance pulls him from his speech and he looks back to find Blaine, wide-eyed and scanning the skies. _Shit. Not today._ He finds his phone to check the weather and jumps when Jonesy's hand is on his shoulder. Another flash of lightning  flickers behind her and she's not looking at his phone as he'd feared, but behind him to Blaine. "Go to him. He's starting to unravel."

This is beyond Jonesy being kind. This is Jonesy breaking her own rules. You do not break rank once lined up in view of the audience. Even before lining up on the sidelines and your competition officially starts – for McKinley the games have already begun.

Kurt nods, whispering a _thank you,_ and goes to him lifting a hand to calm him as soon as he sees Kurt out of line.

"Kurt—you're going to get in tr—"

"Shh. Jonesy sent me." Blaine's eyes are on the sky waiting for another bolt in the distance. "Look at me, Maynard." Kurt tugs gently at Blaine's hat strap secured under his chin. "We're the last band in this group. Then scores. We'll be out of here in 25 minutes, tops."

"How far away—"

"Forty five minutes to an hour. Have you even heard thunder yet?"

"No."

"We'll be on the busses. And we're headed away from the storms. And we have a job to do. No one in this band can do it without you."

"Well that's simply ridic—"

"I cannot do this without you." Blaine's eyes snap to Kurt's – finally – bright and wide and golden brown, still filled with anxiety but at least Kurt has his attention. "Hi."

"My dad's here."

"What?"

"Dad's here." Blaine glances up and around to find Jonesy or Beaman and pulls his phone from his pocket to show Kurt. "Mom texted as we were coming out."

"You okay?"

"Yeah. The storm just – now I really can't blow it and Dad's here. And since when does it storm Halloween weekend? And why couldn't he have come to Invitational?"

"Because he came here." Kurt digs his phone out of his pocket and pulls up a text. "Seems to be the day for it."

He shows Blaine the message from his dad and chuckles when all Blaine can utter is a breathy _oh shit._ And then, "Are _you_ okay?"

"I think so. Doc won't know what hit him."

Blaine's face softens and he dares to lean in, bumping the rims of their hats together. It's only a few moments, but Kurt can feel Blaine's stance straighten, his resolve firm around them. When he pulls back, he's there – all Blaine – eager, earnest, ready and so completely gorgeous.

And unpredictable. "I love you."

Heat washes over Kurt at Blaine's declaration and he finds himself falling deeper and deeper as the blush creeps up Blaine's cheeks. He wants to plant a big wet one on his face, but that would be pushing the rules Jonesy has already broken for them.

Blaine loves him and he loves Blaine and while they've never said as much – someone needs to work on this boy's timing – he knows it as sure as he knows his own name. Lightning flashes around them and this time, Blaine doesn't even flinch. "I love you, too." When Blaine lets his nerves give way to a relieved smile, Kurt gets back in section leader mode. Someone _really_  needs to work on Blaine's timing. "Now, get your head in the game."

"Yes, sir." Blaine straightens even more, jaw set, feet firmly planted, a terse nod that he is ready. Focused. In the game. Except for a glimmer in his eyes that Kurt knows is just for him. "Meet you at the 50?"

Kurt checks for adult eyes and seeing none, leans in for a swift kiss. "Meet you at the 50."

**~~~**~~~**

The celebration for their Superior rating is more subdued than it would be for a normal competition, a melancholy about the ending of marching season swallowing up some of the joy. The storm veered south so they take the time to celebrate before boarding the busses, but there are more tears, more hugs, more quiet chuckles and tired chats than usual.

And then there's Rachel. For reasons no one can quite grasp, she has taken the concept of their 35th Superior State Rating as some sort of personal victory, jumping up and down, squealing like an injured seal, dragging people in celebratory laps around the parked busses.

Somewhere mid-squeal, she stops and huffs, hand on her hip as her mane of hair falls out of its bun, pinned up long enough for competition, and not one minute more. "Why is no one else excited about this!? Thirty five _years_!"

"Because we're tired? Because we can't wait to stick un-ripened fruit under a chocolate fountain that's had 14 thousand kids' sticky fingers in it all day? I don't know, Rachel. Why should we be excited?" Kurt hip-checks Blaine when he starts to giggle because as annoying as she is, not taking her seriously when she's taking herself seriously only leads to tears and wet shoulders and snot-covered everything.

"Don't you remember? Thirty-five years ago, my dads got the _first_ Superior rating for McKinley at state. We're carrying on their tradition!"

"Oh." Kurt looks to Blaine who seems equally impressed. "I had no idea. Why in the hell haven't you told us that after all these years?"

"I have. I know I have. No one ever listens to me."

"Maybe if you didn't shove every idea that crosses your mind into people's faces they'd be more inclined to hear the important ones."

" _Kiki_."

"What?" Kurt sees the look on Blaine's face and feels adequately scolded. "Fine. Sorry. Tell your dads congratulations then, too."

"I'll do that. I can't wait to see the comment sheets. Do you think Jonesy will share them over—oh." Rachel focuses her attention over Kurt's shoulder and he turns to follow her gaze. _Shit_. "Hello, Doc. How'd you get back here? This area is just for the _bands._ "

"I told 'em I used to go here – the old lady let me in."

Kurt looks to where Doc is pointing and shakes his head. "That woman is your mom's age."

"Right. Old Lady."

Kurt gives Blaine a pointed look to get Rachel out of the scene, which he quickly does. "Rachel. I think I saw Finn looking for you. Come on."

"I'd say it was nice to see you again, Doc, but my dads taught me that lying is more impolite than being impolite."

Blaine yanks her away and Kurt has to bite back a laugh, finally meeting Doc eye to eye for the first time since he graduated from school. "She hasn't changed."

"No. Don’t suspect she ever will. Was that the new kid? My replacement?"

"Your replace—" With a huff, Kurt lets out the chuckle he'd been keeping in. "I see you haven't changed either."

"Some of us don’t need to."

"Mmm. So, how's Capital treating you? You in the orchestra?"

"No, they—I swear they rig the auditions to keep the underclassmen out."

"Why would they—"

"I dunno man." Doc shifts and skitters, his attention everywhere but on Kurt. "So, uh. Decent solo and all there, man. Crowd seemed to love it, anyway."

"Meaning you didn't, I'm sure."

"I was just surprised – nice range. Not so much like a girl."

"I take it that's something they teach you at Capital too? How to play by gender?"

Doc's eyes flash angry and Kurt holds his ground, unflinching. "No, I'm just—Jesus. You are always so fucking sensitive. What was that note anyway?"

"Just an E."

"So what'd that other dude have? A G? I mean, that's a breeze _now_ with school and all, but even I didn't have that consistently."

"Mmm, maybe he's better than you—"

"Doc! Nice to see you!" Kurt isn't sure he's ever been so grateful to see Jonesy – or even appreciate her unreasonable affection for Doc. She claps him on the back and pulls away with a frown. "I'm sorry to hear about Capital – what are you going to do now? Finally give OSU a shot?"

"No, no. I—" Doc shoots a look at Kurt, more shifty and awkward than usual. "I think I'm just going to get a job. See—see what happens."

"Might be good. Save some money. Get your bearings."

Kurt asks with his eyes, first to Jonesy who is stone-faced professional, and then to Doc who finally caves. "I— I flunked out."

"But you just said—"

"I flunked out, okay! Just—just—you're probably loving this right now, aren't you?"

"Kiki, where's Maynard?" Jonesy pulls out long blue sheets from the manila envelope she's been carting around and looks out to the band, giving Kurt a stern warning to just let it drop. "Doc, I want you to see this too. We never got comments like this before and you're part of the tradition that got us here."

Kurt doesn't hear the last of Jonesy's words, still in a bit of a shock. Doc flunked out of music school. Is it karma that he doesn't believe in? Is it just the way the cards fall when you're an undisciplined, rude son-of-a-bitch who treats the world like it owes you something? Either way, he's not really loving it as Doc suspects.

He's not especially hating it either.

But, he scans the chaos near the busses, finally spotting Blaine. His bobby pins are sticking out in all directions, he's sweaty and smiley and bouncy and at the moment, hiked up on Sam's back being carted around like a ruck sack. He's adorable. "Maynard!"

Blaine looks up and grins, thwacking Sam on the head to be let down, a bobby pin shooting out of his hair when he lands with a thud. "Oh shit – did that hit anyone?"

"Language, Maynard – get over here. I want to show you something."

"Sorry, Jonesy." Blaine checks the girls who jumped at the flying missile one more time and jogs over, giving Kurt only a quick, "Brace yourself, babe," warning before jumping on his back.

"Oh my god. Maynard, you jackass!" But, Kurt's laughing, scrabbling for Blaine's legs to get him hiked up, walking them back over to Jonesy who should be scolding them, but is laughing and laying out the comment sheets on the hood of a band parent's car.

"Rip one of my uniforms and you're both dead." She pushes a couple sheets to Doc. "Take a look at those – general effect, visuals. Really nice stuff. And then this is what I want you two dumbasses to see."

Kurt takes the page and lifts it so Blaine can see it too. "Oooh, one of the music judges."

"That's Dr. Gallagher, previous head of the trumpet department from Ohio State."

"From Ohio—don’t you have to be a high school instructor to adjudicate?" Kurt backs up against the car and dumps Blaine onto the hood, staying pressed back between his legs as they scan the page together.

"You do. He left OSU this fall and went back to public schools. Got sick of the administrative politics."

"Holy shit, Kurt. Look, look. Balance and Blend section."

Kurt scans down and reads aloud. _The blend of this ensemble is particularly impressive, especially given the talent of the two trumpets we heard today – I can only assume your other sections have the same outstanding musicians. Typically big talent leads to big egos and getting those types of leaders to work within the context of an ensemble is difficult. Nice leadership, Janice – and boys. Please see the back of this for some more personal comments._

Kurt looks up to Jonesy for permission. "Yes – yes. Read!"

_Impressive overall, as usual Janice. You know I've always respected your programs. These two boys we heard today – Kurt and Blaine – please tell me they're headed off into music in some capacity._

"Kurt…"

"I know, I know." Kurt leans into the kiss Blaine's pressing to his cheek and keeps reading. _I have not heard that sort of control and command over a score from kids this age in years. If I were still at OSU, I'd be proud to have both of them in my studio._

Kurt looks up to Jonesy and she is positively _beaming._

"Keep reading, Kiki."

With a quick glance at Doc who's long given up reading the other sheets, looking – well, he looks downright depressed – Kurt marches on. _If they are headed that direction, let me know. I can put in a word for scholarships and make sure they're matched with the best instructors. They gave me gooseflesh and I want to assist in their journey._

Kurt numbly hands the papers back to Jonesy, his mouth slack as Blaine squeezes him tight. "Kurt. We did it – more than we ever hoped for!"

"You two were amazing. All season. It wasn't easy, you both screwed up royally, but every time you came back shining and—" She steps closer and grabs Kurt's face, kissing his forehead, doing the same with Blaine. "I'm just disgustingly proud of both of you."

She gathers up her papers and looks up to the band, smiling when it's clear Beaman has started gathering everyone up into the busses. "Doc. Nice seeing you again. Good luck to you, and gentlemen—" She taps the sheets into the envelope and levels her gaze. "You have 30 more seconds in that position before I give you laps, 7:15 Monday morning."

She whacks Blaine's thighs with the envelope as she walks off leaving the three boys to close out the suddenly awkward situation.

"I'm—yeah. Gonna go help load up the pit." Blaine nudges Kurt forward and slides off the car. "Doc – nice to meet you. Glad you could come." They shake hands and he steals a quick kiss from Kurt. "You want the window seat?"

"Yeah, thanks."

Kurt laughs as Blaine skips into a jog, grabbing Tina into a spin as they disappear behind a bus. And Kurt and Doc are left alone, something that would have, a year ago, given Kurt an anxiety attack. "You know Doc, that could have been us."

"Um, no. I'm straight. And you're—"

"Not even remotely interested. I'm talking about those comment sheets, you ass. _That_ could have been us."

"You weren't that good."

" _You_ weren't, but I was. And I'm even better now, because he didn't intimidate me. He _inspires_ me."

"What's your point, Pussy?"

Kurt smiles, smug and satisfied, stepping in closer – closer than he's ever allowed himself to be to this boy – this tormentor. His eyes are narrowed and he is confident, sure and unmoving. "My point, Doc?" Doc flinches and Kurt grins even broader. "You can call me Pussy. You can say I play like a girl. You can even question what I hide under my clothes. But at the end of the day, I will always be a bigger and better _man_ than you'll ever be."

**~~~**~~~**

Thunder rumbles outside, lightning flashing gold splashes of light into Kurt's room. Kurt curls his naked, thoroughly sated body around Blaine, nuzzling into the back of his neck with a peaceful sigh. They're still catching their breath, sweat-damp and spent, thrilled for another uninterrupted night together. Another night to explore and discover and simply _play._

"So, I think we found a cure for my storm anxiety."

"Orgasms?"

"Mmm." While Blaine contemplates, Kurt kisses along the back of his neck and back, loving the salty tackiness of his skin. "Just you." Blaine softly moans at each slow press of Kurt's lips. "And your kisses."

"Just my kisses?" Kurt brushes his hand across Blaine's chest, swirling a finger around a nipple while he presses closer – too exhausted to do anything else, too wrapped up in the moment to want to part.

"Okay. And Orgasms."

"I'm on board with this theory. Ohio summers suck, so—"

"Maybe I could develop a snow storm anxiety, too – you know, just to keep us in practice."

"Oooh, excellent idea. And you know how well we practice together."

They snuggle in tighter, Kurt tracing lazy lines and circles around Blaine's stomach, dragging his fingers through drops and strings of come – something he never imagined he'd be into, but the slick, warm wet of it all is just one more intimacy. One more secret between them. One more discovery he's happy to have found with Blaine.

And he can't wait to discover more.

But, now it's the quiet luxury of another unexpected night alone. Skin on skin and lazy kisses and quiet moments to take each other in. Where Kurt finds that Blaine has a lone chicken pox scar near his hairline in the center of his forehead needing to be kissed. And where Blaine utters in whispered breath, "Your freckles are fading," and Kurt assures him, "They'll be back next summer."

Blaine's stomach interrupts their reverie and they clean up and head to the kitchen for sustenance.

"Want me to warm up some cider?" Kurt opens the lid to a container of iced pumpkin cookies and slides them over to Blaine.

"Oh that sounds—do you guys _always_ have fresh baked cookies?"

"Pretty much. Between my stress baking and Carole's need to mother everybody who walks through the front door—"

"I need to visit more often." Blaine takes a bite of the soft cookie and leans back against the counter while Kurt puts on a pan for the cider.

Once it's slowly heating, before Blaine's cookie is even gone, Kurt traps him against the counter with his arms, and offers soft, tongue-led kisses to the corner of Blaine's mouth before pressing in, kissing him full. He giggles around it when Blaine squeaks as his cookie drops to the floor. "You had some glaze on—" Kurt points and brushes Blaine's lip with his finger. "On the corner—" He goes in for one more kiss and smiles when Blaine chases his mouth as he steps back to grab some spices to add to the cider. "You taste delicious."

"I definitely need to visit more often." Blaine picks up the cookie from the floor, sneaking a kiss to Kurt's silk robe-covered ass. "Except I'll need to figure out some way to work the cookies off since marching season's over – no more built in exercise."

Kurt plops a few cinnamon sticks into the pot, along with some cloves and allspice berries, lowering the heat and jarring the lid on top with the spoon. He takes Blaine's hand and spins him around and into his arms, unable to wipe the smile – the one he figures is now a permanent fixture – off his face. "I bet we can come up with some more exciting ways to work off the calories."

"Oh, I have no doubt."

They settle at the kitchen table, nibbling on cookies, taking in deep breaths as the cider heats and fills their space with scents of autumn and comfort. A stray rumble of thunder rolls around them and Blaine flashes out of the moment, but is easily pulled back in with the soft touch of Kurt's hand on his knee. "So, your dad. Are you okay with how things ended up with him tonight? It seemed – I don't know. Anti-climactic?"

"Anti-climactic is definitely a win as far as my dad's concerned." Kurt levels his gaze at Blaine and Blaine simply shrugs, handing Kurt a cookie. "He showed up, you know?"

"And you got a thumbs up. Period."

"I know." Blaine sighs. "Look, Dad—he'll never be Burt Hummel. He just won't. And for me to expect that of him isn't fair to either of us. I'll be disappointed all the time and he'll be failing all the time."

"Whatever happened to striving to be a better version of yourself? Is that just something we outgrow?"

"Well, I hope not. I'm not sure Dad ever—I don't know. He showed up. He looked for me. He didn't even raise an eyebrow when he saw us kissing behind the busses."

Kurt suitably blushes. "God – we're going to get in so much trouble one day."

"Maybe, but it'll be worth it." As if to prove it, Blaine leans in and presses a kiss to Kurt's lips, taking his hands in his own. "But, dad – yeah, it was a lame thumbs up, but for him, that's a sign of approval. I'm—I'm really good with that."

"Okay. I just want you to be okay. I finally unloaded everything Doc laid on me over the years tonight and I—I want the same for you."

"It's not the same, but it's good. It's fine. I won't ever completely unload Dad's shit, but it seems easier to carry now anyway."

"If I can help in any way—"

"Just—just love me."

A smile spreads across Kurt's face as the ease of that request washes over him. He's amazed at all that has happened in the past few months – that marching season is over. That he found a boy. This boy. This boy with the earnest, amber eyes. With the passion for music to match his own, with the passion for life that challenges him to step it up, take it in, let it wash over him like a spring rain.

As if Kurt's silence concerns him, Blaine scoots in closer and squeezes Kurt's hands tighter. "You know, earlier. Before we performed. It wasn't anxiety and nerves and the moment that made me tell you—"

"I know. It wasn't some guilty obligation that I said it back—"

"I was terrified moving here. Starting over for my senior year and joining a huge band, not sure what I wanted to do after school beyond _get the fuck out_. And now, I feel like I have everything I need."

"Because of me?"

"Largely. Like you said to Doc – I'm a better man now. A better musician. You inspire me."

"You heard all that, huh?"

"I did."

Kurt lifts a hand to brush his knuckles along Blaine's cheek – checking to see if he is really real. "I love you."

"I love you." With a soft kiss and a nuzzle of noses, Blaine adds, "So, are you ready for me to whoop your ass for wind ensemble?"

"Oh no, Mister. I think you have that backwards." Kurt gets up to turn off the heat to the cider, pouring mugs for both, decorating each with a cinnamon stirring stick. He sits back down with an ornery smile, handing Blaine his mug. "I am whooping your ass. I will be first chair winds – I'll graciously concede the seat for jazz band.

Blaine chuckles, taking the mug. He closes his eyes to breathe in the aroma, the warmth of the mug on his fingers and lifts his cup to Kurt's with a soft smile. "Happy senior year, Kiki."

"Happy senior year."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!! The epilogue will be posted tomorrow around the same time. It's been a blast!


	27. Epilogue

"Alright, hourly Speedo check! Everybody out of the water!"

"Oh for god's sake, who gave Santana a fucking megaphone?" Kurt kisses Blaine on the nose before stepping back from their water embrace, blindly following Santana's ridiculous commands.

"Sylvester's graduation gift to Nini." Blaine whines as his feet hit the bottom of the pool, having been happily bobbing around the water with his legs lazily draped around Kurt's hips. "And why are we doing what she says anyway? This is my house - my pool."

"Ingrained fear. I hear a voice barking from a megaphone and I just obey."

"Ooh. Is that all it takes?"

With a humored glare, Kurt steps up the sandy incline out of the pool in front of Santana, pointing at his very-much-still-on swim trunks. "Can I go back and play now, Mommy?"

"I haven't seen Maynard, yet-- ah. There he is. Sexy legs, May. Missed seeing them this summer."

"Oh, shut up. And give me that megaphone. No more Speedo checks until we have bikini checks too. Equal opportunity sexual misconduct monitoring for all."

Santana is fast, keeping the megaphone one movement ahead of Blaine, finally tossing it to Brittany. "Oh, honey – don't you know, it's legal to go topless in Ohio."

"I'm talking bottoms."

Santana grins and wags her fingers at Brittany to get the megaphone back, clicking it on when she gets it. "Ladies and gentlemen. Blaine Maynard Anderson is talking bottoming. Full story after the local fireworks at 11."

Blaine side-eyes Kurt who is already chuckling. Before prom that spring, there had actually been a betting pool among their friends on who topped and who bottomed. Kurt and Blaine ended up with the money when Tina shut it down, realizing they were enjoying the speculation more than the others were enjoying the joke. It paid for a very nice hotel room after prom.

Where Blaine topped.

And then Blaine bottomed.

And then they showered and slept and sexed and lost track because no one cares less than they do.

"Give me the megaphone, Snix. You are _not_ to be trusted." Blaine yanks it away and takes Kurt's hand, leading him to the scattered blankets laid out for the fireworks.

It's July 4th – their last, forever, final summer party. It started with the afternoon parade, the graduated seniors watching, singing their parts as the band marched by, and is ending here at Blaine's house for the party. The SnixxyMay team handily won the chicken tournament, Sugar's pasta salad won the unofficial "Best Side Dish" award and Artie has kept the party rolling by surreptitiously adding vodka to the lemonade pitcher every time Mrs. Anderson comes out to refill it.

There are fireworks to be watched, and, in light of the fact that no one's done anything particularly dumb yet, there is more spiked lemonade to be consumed.

Kurt grabs two cupfuls on the way to the blankets and hands one off to Blaine before sitting down. "Oh." Kurt swallows thickly. "It's a strong batch."

"I can't believe Mom hasn't noticed yet."

"She has – she's drinking it too. Haven't you seen her?"

"No?" He looks up just in time to see her stumble back into the house. "Oh god. Mom's blotto."

"Eh, just a little wobbly. Leave her be. She's had a hell of a year."

Blaine sets his cup down, making sure it's balanced and picks a few clovers and thick blades of grass before lying back to rest his head in Kurt's lap. "She's okay now. I'm okay now." He ties the leaves to the clover stem and blindly grabs for a few more, looking up to Kurt with a contended grin. "Thanks to you."

"Mmm, I'd say thanks to everyone here. Nothing like walking into someone else's family—"

"It was easy. You all just welcomed me like some long lost relative." Blaine ties clover and grass blades together, more and more, scooting over to let Mercedes and Tina join them.

"Whatcha making, Blainers?" Tina lifts her lemonade cup to Mercedes they knock them together, chugging them back as though it's water. "Good god, that's good."

"Remember the last day of band camp? Kurt made me a clover wreath and after I sort of ruined the day, I swore I'd make him one to make up for it."

"Blaine…" Kurt combs his fingers through Blaine's hair. "You don't have to—"

"Hush. It's a promise I made to myself and we never practiced on grass again, so—" A clover pops off the stem and he huffs, smiling as one magically appears in front of his face again. "Thanks, Tina."

"So, we know you guys are headed to OSU – how have summer sessions been going?"

"Oh my god, you think Jonesy is tough. How many laps do we run to start practices, Maynard? About 10?"

"Easily. I'm ready to go home before we even start playing."

"Yeah, but then we start playing—"

"And everything changes."

Mercedes chuckles at the dreamy-eyed boys. "You think you'll make it? Two trumpets from one school is sort of unheard of, isn't it?"

"Yeah, and what if you don't? What're you going to do?"

"Take our scholarships and get a decent education before we head to New York." Kurt shrugs and takes another drink. "But we're going to make it."

"I'm trying out for effer, so that helps – a lot less competition off the top." Blaine pulls his string of clover and grass back and grins, taking another clover from Tina and tying it on. "No sense focusing on what-if-we-don't. We just have to kill it and make sure we do."

"Effer? What the fuck is an effer?" Sam and Mike plop down on the blankets, stealing the remainder of Tina and Mercedes drinks to great protest from the girls.

"E-flat trumpet. Sort of like the piccolo of the brass band."

"Ah, so now you can _really_ nail those high notes?" Sam belches and slams down the empty cup. Mercedes starts to grouse, but there is a skirmish by the pool and Quinn is up on her feet angrily pointing at Rachel – their conversation too intensely quiet to hear.

"Oh hell." Blaine sits up and catches Artie's eye. "My phone – right by you. Bring it over here."

Artie grabs Blaine's phone and rolls his chair to the group, all staring across the pool at Quinn, Rachel and Finn.

Santana and Nini stop making out in the pool long enough to watch.

Puck swears as he searches under thrown clothes and towels to locate his phone. "Sweet!"

He points it at the trio and Blaine cracks up. "We're such a supportive group."

Kurt chuckles and bites his lip. "How much has Rachel had to drink?"

"I think she's had a cup glued to her hand all afternoon. You missed the screechy-loud Rachel when you and Blaine were _helping Mrs. A in the kitchen_ – which I might suggest wasn't a good lie seeing as no one _saw_ you in the kitchen. What's next?" Artie snaps his wheelchair locked and leans in as far as he can to see if he can hear the heated conversation between the two girls.

"Horny-I-want-Quinn Rachel. Blaine, tell me your phone isn't being a dick and is actually taking pictures."

"It is not being a dick. We're all doing that just fine."

"Even after graduating, we're all a big bag of dicks." Kurt leans in as Quinn leans in to Rachel, almost knocking Tina off her perch on her knees. "What the fuck are they saying?"

And then, no one cares because Quinn wraps her hand around the back of Rachel's neck and pulls her in for a hard, dirty, all-tongue and no finesse kiss. Whoops and hollers ring around Blaine's back yard which only spurs Quinn on, pulling Rachel in full, cupping her other hand over the curve of her ass until she finally pulls back with a loud, wet, popping smack.

"Okay, Rachel? Is that what you wanted? You good now?"

"Oh my fucking god, Kurt – check out your brother."

Quinn continues her diatribe while Rachel stands stunned, her hand quivering, brown eyes bugged, mouth agape. "You gonna let this little fantasy of yours go?"

Kurt follows Blaine's direction and laughs, covering his mouth with his hand. "He doesn't know whether to be pissed off or turned on. Poor guy."

"Truth be told, I think I'm sort of turned on."

Santana whoops and does a flip in the water, going back to making out with Brittany. And Blaine follows her with his camera. "You know what would have been even hotter?"

Kurt leans in to look over Blaine's shoulder, watching the view in his camera. "Snix and Q. Every time."

"Fuck yeah." Blaine leans back and drops his camera, curling a hand back around Kurt's neck to pull him in for a kiss – wet, sloppy, tongue-y.

Sam groans and gets up, grabbing Mercedes and pushing Artie away with him. "Folks, we need to find us some companionship."

"Get me to Sugar – she gives great lap dances."

"Dude. Can you even feel that shit?"

"Dude. I feel it where it counts – now get me to that woman. She's looking lonely."

Blaine breaks free and spins around, grabbing his clover chain to finish one more tie, making it into a wreath. "Here. You can be the prince of the party."

"Blaine…"

"Okay, you can be _my_ prince." Kurt rolls his eyes, but Blaine presses on. "Shut up and let me put it on you. I wore mine for an entire damned day without complaint."

"You did. You looked adorable."

"I also fucked it all up, so—" Blaine rests the wreath on Kurt's head, pulling tendrils of damp hair through the blades to get it to stay. He leans back to check over his work, noticing Mike and Tina are watching them too. "How's it look?"

"Royal. All bow to Prince Kiki."

Kurt looks up and pats at his crown, smiling. "I think I could get used to this."

"Oh no. What have I created?"

With a chuckle and a quick eye to make sure Mike and Tina have turned their attentions back to themselves, Kurt cups Blaine's cheeks in his hands and just like every time when Kurt looks at him like this – like he can't believe he's real – Blaine finds breathing difficult. "This smile. You've created this smile. And it's all yours."

"OH MY FUCKING GOD, DON'T JUST TOSS THE GOD DAMNED SPENT MATCHES ON THE GRASS, YOU JACKASS."

"And, we're brought back to reality. Jesus." Blaine kisses Kurt's nose and turns to the back of the yard where Puck is now hopping up and down while Finn fumbles around, trying to pick up something from the grass, mumbling apologies in between fits of laughter.

"Who gave Beavis and Butthead matches _and_ access to almost-legal fireworks?" Santana falls onto the blankets in between Kurt and Blaine stretching like a cat, slow and seductive cracking up when she looks up to see them gawking. And swallowing thickly.

"Careful. Your Kinsey numbers are plummeting, boys."

"And you're soaking our blanket. Get a towel."

"No. This is too entertaining." She pulls her hand over her hair and flips the collected moisture in Kurt's face, batting her eyes in apology. "Maybe he'll start a fire and we can see how incompetent Lima City's new chief really is."

"Oh, let's not, huh? Blaine's barely been here a year – we don't want to burn down his house yet, do we?"

Blaine has no idea what they're talking about, so he situates himself in front of Kurt who opens his legs to cradle Blaine's body, gearing up for the real fireworks that should start any minute. "The guy made it to chief – he can't be that bad, can he?"

"Didn't you hear? Two weeks into his new position, he starts a kitchen fire at the station. $2 million in damage."

"Oh. Hell. That's – unfortunate."

"Hey, wait a minute – he showed up around the same time you did, Maynard. Chief _Anderson_ , no less."

"Ander—Snix. Anderson is like the 10th most popular last name in America. I don't know him."

Santana huffs and waves Brittany over to snuggle in for the real show, everyone quickly following, plopping down in various groupings and piles. "Stick with that story. The dude's a mess."

Finn and Puck give up on their purchased fire power and join the party, avoiding Rachel as though she has a disease. Kurt looks for Rachel and finds her with Mercedes unaffected and happy. "Apparently, he chose to be pissed."

"Pity – he's missing out on a rich fantasy life."

"Mmm. Even better when your reality beats any fantasy."

"Much."

The fireworks begin and after the first few go off with everyone snarking _ooohs,_ and _aaahs,_ they settle into quiet, the pop and hiss, boom and spray of the display a perfect soundtrack to close out this wonderful evening with friends.

About halfway through the show, Blaine turns his head to kiss at Kurt's neck. "Let's get in the water."

Kurt stands without a word, pulling Blaine up, ignoring the commentary from Santana – it's simply to be expected any more.

But, Finn is following them. "Hey, guys. You see Rachel anywhere?"

Blaine looks around and grins when he sees her. "Yeah. Over there. See that pile under the red blanket?"

"What is she—"

"Looks like she found another make-out buddy, fella." Blaine hits him on the arm and takes Kurt's hand to make a running jump into the deep end of the pool.

The first thing he hears when they resurface is enough to make him want to dunk back underwater, never to return.

"Oh my god, you guys!! Why didn't anyone _tell_ me Quinn was such an amazing kisser. Finn, I forgive you for never keeping your hands off of h—" Her announcement is cut short when Quinn's hand pops up from underneath the blanket and yanks her back.

"Shut the fuck up, Berry. Don't talk. Just kiss."

Fireworks continue to go off from the high school, perfectly viewed over the trees lining the Anderson property. And Blaine has had enough togetherness. Enough band. Enough family and friends. He watches one more explosion of red and green and blue and jumps on Kurt, knocking them both backwards into the water, miraculously finding his lips and kissing him senseless as they float back to the surface.

"Sorry – Rachel was simply inspirational."

"Seeing two squirrels bump into each other is inspirational to you." Kurt huffs and flips his hair back, but the smile, while unseen in the dark, is still heard in his tone. And then it's felt as he goes for Blaine himself, lip to lip, hip to hip, water sloshing around them as they move and get comfortable again to let the water lighten Kurt's load as he holds Blaine around his waist.

Blaine looks up and grins, picking a loose clover off of Kurt's wreath. "You lost your crown."

"That's okay. Just so I don't lose you."

"Never."

"That's an awful long time."

"I know. It's going to be fantastic."

**~~~**~~~**

_Blaine [08-25-12 3:03am]: Are you awake, babe?_

_Kurt [08-24-12 3:06am]: Sort of. Slipping in and out. You okay?_

_Blaine [08-24-12 3:07am]: Can't sleep. Too revved up. Still in a state of shock._

_Kurt [08-24-12 3:08am]: Yeah, I know. I am too._

_Kurt [08-24-12 3:08am]: We made it, Maynard. OSUMB._

_Blaine [08-24-12 3:09am]: And in a week we're going to be in that stadium again. WITH them. I don't think I'm ever going to sleep again._

_Kurt [08-24-12 3:11am]: Oh honey, sleep. Your eyes get all dark and stormy when you're tired._

_Blaine [08-24-12 3:12am]: I thought you liked dark and stormy._

_Kurt [08-24-12 3:13am]: Ha. I like your eyes in any state. I like your everything in any state, come to think of it._

_Blaine [08-24-12 3:14am]: Don’t start something you can't finish. I'm also horny as hell._

_Kurt [08-24-12 3:14am]: You're always horny as hell._

_Blaine [08-24-12 3:15am]: Speaking of, you still coming over to help me pack tomorrow?_

_Kurt [08-24-12 3:15am]: Yes. I need to get out of here anyway. Carole's all weepy that this is our last weekend home._

_Blaine [08-24-12 3:16am]: And all we want to do is GET.OUT._

_Kurt [08-24-12 3:17am]: Aren't you a little scared?_

_Blaine [08-24-12 3:18am]: I'm a lot scared. I still want out. I don't like Mom's new boyfriend at all._

_Kurt [08-24-12 3:18am]: Yeah, he has an amplified creepy factor._

_Kurt [08-24-12 3:20am]: What if our roommates suck?_

_Blaine [08-24-12 3:21am]: We're two floors away from each other. Lots of visits._

_Kurt [08-24-12 3:22am]: Still can't believe we ended up in the same dorm, too._

_Blaine [08-24-12 3:35am]: I fell asleep. Time to say goodnight, Gracie._

_Kurt [08-24-12 3:27am]: I love you, Mr. X Row Effer._

_Blaine {08-24-12 3:28am]: I love you too, Mr. T Row Trumpet. OMFG, Kurt!!!_

_Kurt [08-24-12 3:29am]: I know. I know. So happy to be doing this with you._

_Blaine [08-24-12 3:30am]: Everything. You and me. The two of us. We're gonna kill it._

_Kurt [08-24-12 3:31am]: You know, Snix told me during marching season that if we ever got our shit together, we'd be unstoppable._

_Blaine [08-24-12 3:32am]: Snix is a genius._

_Kurt [08-24-12 3:33am]: Goodnight, Gracie._

_Blaine [08-24-12 3:34am]: Goodnight._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you. If you left comments. If you left kudos. If you contacted me via tumblr or s&c, LJ or here. If you reblogged, rec'd, or if you're a reader like me where you just enjoy and keep it to yourself - thank you. This story almost didn't get written a number of times. And then, it didn't seem to get read and I almost pulled it down. So, thank you. It's been a fun few months sharing this with you.
> 
> And if you're wondering, the Faberry fun is a nod to the always supportive Mr. Fanci. And if you read Angel in a Red Vest, you might have seen a little nod to all you lovely people there too. Hats off and stay tuned for some shorts in this verse and before you know it - another story, another verse, another fun ride.


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